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But if Love don't, Cash does, and Cash alone:
High ground, as Virgin Cynthia sways the tides;
Is not all love. prohibited whatever,
Excepting marriage? which is love no doubt, After a sort; but somehow people never
With the same thought the two words have helped out: Love may exist with marriage and should ever,
And marriage also may exist without;
But love sans bans is both a sin and shame,
Now if the court» and « camp» and «grove » be not
Who never coveted their neighbour's lot,
My Jeffrey held him up as an example
Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded,
And my success produced what I in sooth
Cared most about; it need not now be pleaded
Whate'er it was, 'twas mine; I've paid, in truth, Of late the penalty of such success,...
But have not learned to wish it any less.
That suit in Chancery, which some persons plead
Why, I'm Posterity-and so are you;
And whom do we remember? Not a hundred. Were every memory written down all true,
The tenth or twentieth name would be but blundered; Even Plutarch's Lives have but picked out a few,
And 'gainst those few your annalists have thundered; And Mitford in the nineteenth century Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie *
* See Mitford's Greece. «Gracia Verax,» His great pleasure consists in praising tyrants, abusing Plutarch, spelling oddly, and writing quaintly; and what is strange after all, his is the best modern history of Greece in any language, and he is perhaps the best of all modern historians whatsoever. Having named his sins, it is but fair to state his virtues—learning, labour, research, wrath, and partiality. I call the latter virtues in a writer, because they make him write in earnest.
Good People all, of every degree,
Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers In this twelfth Canto 'tis my wish to be
As serious as if I had for inditers
Malthus and Wilberforce : the last set free
The Negroes, and is worth a million fighters;
I'm serious- -so are all men upon paper;
Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation
That's noble! That's romantic! For my part,
But I'm resolved to say nought that's amiss) —
And now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan!
'Tis true, that thy career is not a new one;
Thou art no novice in the headlong chase Of early life; but this is a new land
Which foreigners can never understand.
What with a small diversity of climate,
Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, I could send forth my mandate like a primate Upon the rest of Europe's social state; But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at, Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate. All countries have their «Lions,» but in thee There is but one superb menagerie.
But I am sick of politics. Begin,
<< Paulo Majora.» Juan undecided
Amongst the paths of being « taken in, »
Above the ice had like a skaiter glided:
When tired of play, he flirted without sin
With some of those fair creatures who have prided Themselves on innocent tantalization,
And hate all vice except its reputation.
But these are few, and in the end they make
That even the purest people may mistake
Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows; And then men stare, as if a new ass spake
→ To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows: Quick silver Small Talk, ending (if you not it)" With the kind world's Amen!« Who would have thought it? >>
The little Leila, with her orient eyes,
And taciturn Asiatic disposition,
(Which saw all Western things with small surprise, To the surprise of people of condition,
Who think that novelties are butterflies
The women much divided- as is usual
And now there was a general sensation
In one point only were you settled-and
You had reason; 'twas that a young Child of Grace, As beautiful as her own native land,
And far away, the last bud of her race,
Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command
So first there was a generous emulation,
To undertake the orphan's education.
As Juan was a person of condition,