And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; (Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,`

XXXVII.

The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo,"

But that is now grown vulgar and indecent;

XLIV.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,

The Spaniards call the person a "Cortejo," [recent; | And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,

For the same mode subsists in Spain, though
In short it reaches from the Po to Teio,
And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent.
But Heaven preserve Old England from such
courses!

Or what becomes of damage and divorces?

XXXVIII.

However, I still think, with all due deference
To the fair single part of the creation,
That married ladies should preserve the preference
In tête-a-tête or general conversation-
And this I say without peculiar reference

To England, France, or any other nation-
Because they know the world, and are at gase,
And being natural, naturally please.

XXXIX.

"Tis true your budding Miss is very charming,
But shy and awkward at first coming out,
So much alarm'd that she is quite alarming,

All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout;
And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in
What you, she, it, or they may be about,
The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter-
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

XL.

But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase
Used in politest circles to express
This supernumerary slave, who stays
Close to the lady as a part of dress,
Her word the only law which he obeys.
His is no sinecure, as you may guess;
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call,
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl.

XLI.

With all its sinful doings, I must say,
That Italy's a pleasant place to me,
Who love to see the Sun shine every day,

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play,
Or melodrame, which people flock to see,
When the first act is ended by a dance
In vineyards copied from the south of France.
XLII.

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out,

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure
My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about,

Because the skies are not the most secure;
I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route,
Where the green alleys windingly allure,
Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way,-*
In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray.

XLIII.

I also like to dine on becaficas,

To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow,
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as
A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow,
But with all Heaven t' himself; that day will break as
Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers
Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. ·

With syllables which breathe of the sweet South,
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,

That not a single accent seems uncouth,
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural,
Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all
XLV.

I like the women too, (forgive my folly,)

From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze,
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley
Of rays that say a thousand things at once,
To the high dama's brow, more melancholy,
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance,
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.

XLVI.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise!
Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire
Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies
With all we know of Heaven, or can desire,
In what he hath bequeath'd us ?-in what guise,
Though flashing from the fervor of the lyre,
Would words describe thy past and present glow,
While yet Canova can create below? *

XLVII.

"England! with all thy faults I love thee still," I said at Calais, and have not forgot it;

I like to speak and lucubate my fill;

I like the government, (but that is not it ;)

I like the freedom of the press and quill;

I like the Habeas Corpus, (when we've got it;)

I like a parliamentary debate,

Particularly when 'tis not too late;

XLVIII.

I like the taxes, when they're not too many;
I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear;

I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any;
Have no objection to a pot of beer;

I like the weather, when it is not rainy,
That is, I like two months of every year.
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King.
Which means that I like all and every thing.

XLIX.

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,
Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt,
Our little riots just to show we are free men,
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,
All these I can forgive, and those forget,
And greatly venerate our recent glories,
And wish they were not owing the Tories.

• Note.

(In talking thus, the writer, more especially
Of women, would be understood to say,
He speaks as a spectator, not officially,
And always, reader, in a modest way;
Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall be
Appear to have offended in this lay,
Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets
Would seem unfinish'd like their untrimm'd bonnets.)
(Signed)
Printer's Dell.

But I am but a rameless sort of person,

(A broken Dandy lately on my travels,)

LVII.

Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before)
A pretty woman as was ever seen,
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door,

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine,
With all the fashions which the last month wore,
Color'd, and silver paper leaved between

That and the title-page, for fear the press
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress
LVIII.

They went to the Ridotto;-'tis a hall

Where people dance, and sup, and dance again;
Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball,
But that's of no importance to my strain;
'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall,
Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain:
The company is "mix'd," (the phrase I quote is
As much as saving, they're below your notice ;)

LIX.

For a "mix'd company" implies that, save
Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more,

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, Whom you may bow to without looking grave, The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels,

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on,
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils;
I've a half mind to tumble down to prose,
But verse is more in fashion-so here goes.

LIII.

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement,
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do,
For half a dozen years without estrangement;
They had their little differences, too;

The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore
Of public places, where they basely brave
The fashionable stare of twenty score
Of well-bred persons, call'd "the World; " but I
Although I know them, really don't know why.

LX.

This is the case in England; at least was
During the dynasty of Dandies, now
Perchance succeeded by some other class
Of imitated imitators :-how

Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant: Irreparably soon decline, alas!

In such affairs there probably are few

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble,
From sinners of high station to the rabble.

LIV.

But on the whole, they were a happy pair,
As happy as unlawful love could make them;
The gentleman was fond, the lady fair,

Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to
break them:

The world beheld them with indulgent air;

The pious only wish'd "the devil take them!"
He took them not; he very often waits,
And leaves old sinners to be young one's baits.

LV.

But they were young; Oh! what without our youth
Would love be! What would youth be without love!
Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigor, truth,

Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above;
But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth-
One of few things experience don't improve,
Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows
Are always so preposterously jealous.

LVI.

It was the Carnival, as I have said

Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so Laura the usual preparations made,

Which you do when your mind's made up to go
To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade,

Spectator, or partaker in the show;
The only difference known between the cases
Is-here, we have six weeks of "varnish'd faces."

The demagogues of fashion: all below
Is frail; how easily the world is lost
By love, or war, and now and then by frost!
LXI.

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor,
Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer,
Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or

A blundering novice in his new French grammar;
Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war,
And as for Fortune-but I dare not d―n her,
Because, were I to ponder to infinity,
The more I should believe in her divinity.

LXII.

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet,

She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage,
I cannot say that she's done much for me yet;
Nor that I mean her bounties to disparage,
We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet
How much she'll make amends for past miscar-

riage;

Meantime the goddess I'll no more importune,
Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune.

LXIII.

To turn,-and to return;-the devil take it!
This story slips for ever through my fingers,
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it,
It needs must be-and so it rather lingers;
This form of verse began, I can't well break it,
But must keep time and tune like public singers
But if I once get through my present measure,
I'll take another when I'm next at leisure.