LXXXIII.

I've seen some balls and revels in my time,
And staid them over for some silly reason,
And then I look'd, (I hope it was no crime,)
To see what lady best stood out the season;
And though I've seen some thousands in their prime,
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on,
I never saw but one, (the stars withdrawn,)
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn..

LXXXIV.

The name of this Aurora I'll not mention,
Although I might, for she was nought to me
More than that patent work of God's invention,
A charming woman, whom we like to see;
But writing names would merit reprehension,
Yet if you like to find out this fair she,
At the next London or Parisian ball

You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all.

LXXXV.

Laura, who knew it would not do at all

To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting Among three thousand people at a ball,

To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting; The Count was at her elbow with her shawl,

And they the room were on the point of quitting, When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got Just in the very place where they should not.

LXXXVI.

In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause
Is much the same-the crowd, and pulling, hauling,
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws,

They make a never intermitted bawling.

At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws,
And here a sentry stands within your calling;
But, for all that, there is a deal of swearing,
And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing.

LXXXVII.

The Count and Laura found their boat at last,
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide,

Discussing all the dances gone and past ;
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ;
Some little scandals eke: but all aghast

(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide,) Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer,

When lo! the Mussulman was there before her.

LXXXVIII.

"Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, "Your unexpected presence here will make

It necessary for myself to crave

Its import? But perhaps 'tis a mistake; I hope it is so; and at once to wave

All compliment, I hope so for your sake; You understand my meaning, or you shall." "quoth the Turk) "'tis no mistake at all.

LXXXIX.

'That lady is my wife!" Much wonder paints
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might;
But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints,
Italian females don't do so outright;

They only call a little on their saints,

And then come to themselves, almost or quite; Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, And cutting stays, as usual in such cases.

XC.

She said,-what could she say? Why not a word:
But the Count courteously invited in

The stranger, much appeased by what he heard:
"Such things perhaps, we'd best discuss within,"
Said he, " don't let us make ourselves absurd
In public, by a scene, nor raise a din,

For then the chief and only satisfaction

Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction."

XCI.

They enter'd, and for coffee call'd,—it came,
A beverage for Turks and Christians both,
Although the way they make it's not the same.
Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth
To speak, cries" Beppo! what's your pagan name?
Bless me! your beard is of amazing growth?
And how came you to keep away so long?

Are

you not sensible 'twas very wrong?

VOL. III.

13

XCII.

"And are you really, truly, now a Turk?
With any other women did you wive?
Is't true they use their fingers for a fork?

Well, that's the prettiest shawl-as I'm alive!
You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork.
And how so many years did you contrive
To-Bless me! did I ever? No, I never
Saw a man grown so yellow! How's your liver?

XCIII.

"Beppo! that beard of yours becomes you not; It shall be shaved before you're a day older; Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot―

Pray don't you think the weather here is colder? How do I look? You shan't stir from this spot

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder Should find you out, and make the story known. How short your hair is! Lord! how gray it's grown."

XCIV.

What answer Beppo made to these demands
Is more than I know. He was cast away
About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands;
Became a slave of course, and for his pay
Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands
Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay,
He join❜d the rogues and prosper'd, and became
A renegado of indifferent fame.

XCV.

But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so
Keen the desire to see his home again,
He thought himself in duty bound to do so,
And not be always thieving on the main;
Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe,
And so he hired a vessel come from Spain,
Bound for Corfu; she was a fine polacca,
Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco.

XCVI.

Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten) cash,
He then embark'd, with risk of life and limb,
And got clear off, although the attempt was rash;
He said that Providence protected him—

For

my part, I say nothing, lest we clash

In our opinions:-well, the ship was trim,
Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on,
Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn.

XCVII.

They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading,
And self and live-stock, to another bottom,
And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading
With goods of various names, but I've forgot 'em.
However, he got off by this evading,

Or else the people would perhaps have shot him; And thus at Venice landed to reclaim

His wife, religion, house, and Christian name.