CCV. Oh Love! of whom great Cæsar was the suitor, Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave CCVI. Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious, Have much employ'd the Muse of history's pen; Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. CCVII. Thou mak'st philosophers: there's Epicurus And Aristippus, a material crew! Who to immoral courses would allure us By theories quite practicable too; If only from the devil they would insure us, 66 How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?" So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. CCVIII. But Juan! had he quite forgotten Julia? And should he have forgotten her so soon? I can't but say it seems to me most truly a Else how the devil is it that fresh features CCIX. I hate inconstancy-I loathe, detest, Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made But soon philosophy came to 66 66 CCX. my aid, And whisper'd think of every sacred tie! I will, my dear philosophy!" I said; "But then her teeth, and then, oh heaven! her eye! I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid, Or neither-out of curiosity." "Stop!" cried philosophy, with air so Grecian 66 CCXI. : Stop!" so I stopp'd.-But to return that which Is but a heightening of the "beau idéal.” CCXII. 'Tis the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull; In short, it is the use of our own eyes, With one or two small senses added, just To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. CCXIII. Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, As when she rose upon us like an Eve, CCXIV. The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven, CCXV. The liver is the lazaret of bile, But very rarely executes its function, That all the rest creep in and form a junction Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd "central." CCXVI. In the mean time, without proceeding more That being about the number I 'll allow CANTO III. I. HAIL, Muse! et cætera.—We left Juan sleeping, And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, II. Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh? As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, And place them on their breast-but place to die : Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. III. In her first passion woman loves her lover, And fits her loosely-like an easy glove, She then prefers him in the plural number, IV. I now not if the fault be men's or theirs ; But one thing 's pretty sure; a woman planted (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers), After a decent time must be gallanted; Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs Is that to which her heart is wholly granted: Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, But those who have ne'er end with only one. V. 'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign VI. There's something of antipathy, as 't were, Is used, until the truth arrives too late Yet what can people do, except despair? The same things change their names at such a rate: For instance-passion in a lover 's glorious, But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. Men VII. grow ashamed of being so very fond, They sometimes also get a little tired (But that, of course, is rare), and then despond : The same things cannot always be admired, Yet 't is "so nominated in the bond," That both are tied till one shall have expired. Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. VIII. There 's doubtless something in domestic doings For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, IX. All tragedies are finish'd by a death, All comedies are ended by a marriage; The future states of both are left to faith, For authors fear description might disparage The worlas to come of both, or fall beneath, And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage; So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, They say no more of Death or of the Lady. |