XCIII. Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word: XCIV. If all these seem a heterogeneous mass, Is better than a humdrum tête-à-tête. When Congreve's fool could vie with Molière's bee Society is smoothed to that excess, That manners hardly differ more than dress, XCV. Our ridicules are kept in the back ground, Professional; and there is naught to cull They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. Society is now one polish'd horde, Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bared. XCVI. But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning But when we can, we glean in this vile age I must not quite omit the talking sage, Who, in his commonplace book had a page Prepared each morn for evenings. "List, oh list!""Alas, poor ghost!"-What unexpected woes Await those who have studied their bons-mots! XCVIII. Firstly, they must allure the conversation XCIX. Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; The party we have touch'd on were the guests: I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, That happiness for man-the hungry sinner!- c. Witness the lands which "flow'd with milk and hɔney- To this we 've added since the love of money, Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny: We tire of mistresses and parasites: [Cato. But oh, ambrosial cash! ah! who would lose thee? While Strongbow's best things might have come from When we no more can use, or even abuse thee! The politicians, in a nook apart, Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres; A moment's good thing may have cost them years Before they find an hour to introduce it, And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it. CX. But all was gentle and aristocratic In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and co'd, But fair as then, or fairer to behold. CXI. They separated at an early hour; That is, ere midnight-which is London's noon: But in the country, ladies seek their bower A little earlier than the waning moon. Peace to the slumbers of each folded flowerMay the rose call back its true colours soon! Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge-at least some winters, CANTO XIV. 1. Ir from great Nature's, or our own abyss Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 11. But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one Nothing more true than not to trust your senses; And yet what are your other evidences? For me, I know naught; nothing I deny, Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, Except perhaps that you were born to die? And both may after all turn out untrue. An age may come, font of eternity, When nothing shall be either old or new. Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. IV. A sleep without dreams, after a ough day Of paying debts, which creditors regret) V. 'Tis round him, near him, here, there, every where ; And there's a courage which grows out of fear, Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare The worst to know it:—when the mountains rear Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there You look down o'er the precipice, and drear The gulf of rock yawns,-you can't gaze a minute Without an awful wish to plunge within it. VI. T is true, you do n't-but, pale and struck with terror, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, XIII. Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction; Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, XIV. Love, war, a tempest-surely there's variety; To plunge with all your fears-but where? You know not, And though these lines should only line portmanteaus And that's the reason why you do—or do not. VII. But what's this to the purpose? you will say. This narrative is not meant for narration, To build up common things with commonplaces. VIII. You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, Is poesy, according as the mind glows; A shadow which the onward soul behind throws IX. The world is all before me-or behind; Of passions, too, I 've proved enough to blame, To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame: For I was rather famous in my time, Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. X. I have brought this world about my ears, and eke XI. But "why then publish ?"—There are no rewards I ask in turn, why do you play at cards? On what I've seen or ponder'd sad or cheery; I think that were I certain of success, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. [dreary. In play, there are two pleasures for your choosingThe one is winning, and the other losing. Trade will be all the better for these cantos. XV. The portion of this world which I at present XVI. With much to excite, there's little to exalt; Nothing that speaks to all men and all times; A sort of varnish over every fault; A kind of commonplace, even in their crimes; Factitious passions, wit without much salt, A want of that true nature which sublimes Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony Of character, in those at least who have got any. XVII. Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, And they must be or seem what they were: still Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade; But when of the first sight you have had your fill, It palls-at least it did so upon me, This paradise of pleasure and ennui. XVIII. When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, XIX. 'T is said—indeed a general complaintThat no one has succeeded in describing The monde exactly as they ought to paint. Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, To furnish matter for their moral gibing; And that their books have but one style in conmon— My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. XX. But this can't well be true, just now; for writers Of, what they deem themselves most consequential, The real portrait of the highest tribe? 'T is that, in fact, there's little to describe. Haud ignara loquor:" these are nuga, " quarum Purs parva fui," but still art and part. Now I could much more easily sketch a haram, A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 'em For reasons which I choose to keep apart. "Vetato Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit," Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. And therefore what I throw off is ideal Lower'd, leaven'd like a history of Freemasons; Which bears the same relation to the real, As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. The grand Arcanum's not for men to see all; My music has some mystic diapasons; And there is much which could not be appreciated In any manner by the uninitiated. Alas! worlds fall-and woman, since she fell'd Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemn'd to child-hed, as men for their sins, Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins, A daily plague, which, in the aggregate, The real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, But form good housekeepers to breed a nation. All this were very well, and can't be better; Such smalt distinction between friends and foes, That but ask any woman if she'd choose (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been Female or male? a school-boy or a queen? XXVI. "Petticoat influence" is a great reproach, But, since beneath it upon earth we are brought Much I respect, and much I have adored, And when upon a silent, sullen day, With a Sirocco, for example, blowing,- And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, With which I could not brew a pastoral. But be it as it may, a bard must meet All difficulties, whether great or small, To spoil his undertaking or complete, Juan-in this respect at least like saints- In camps, in ship, in cottages, or courts- A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange; "T is also subject to the double danger The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, |