XXIX. And Laura waited long, and wept a little, And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; She almost lost all appetite for victual, And could not sleep with ease alone at night; XXX. She chose, (and what is there they will not chuse, A coxcomb was he by the public voice: XXXI. And then he was a count, and then he knew Music and dancing, fiddling, French, and Tuscan; The last not easy, be it known to you, For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. He was a critic upon operas too, And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin; And no Venetian audience could endure a Song, scene, or air, when he cried "seccatura." XXXII. His "bravo" was decisive, for that sound For fear of some false note's detected flaw. Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. XXXIII. He patronized the improvvisatori, Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as Italians can be, though in this their glory Must surely yield the palm to that which France has ; In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, And to his very valet seem'd a hero. XXXIV. Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous; His heart was one of those which most enamour us, He was a lover of the good old school, XXXV. No wonder such accomplishments should turn In law he was almost as good as dead; he And really if a man won't let us know XXXVI. Besides, within the Alps, to every woman And no one notices, nor cares a pin; The word was formerly a XXXVII. 66 cicisbeo," But that is now grown vulgar and indecent; The Spaniards call the person a 66 cortejo," 3יי For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent : 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 XXXIX. 'T is true, your budding Miss is very charming, All giggle, blush; half pertness, and half pout; XL. But cavalier servente" is the phrase His is no sinecure, as you may guess; XLI. With all its sinful doings, I must say, That Italy's a pleasant place to me, And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree XLII. I like on autumn evenings to ride out, Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 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-candle light, which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers. XLIV. I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, With syllables which breathe of the sweet south, That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, XLV. I like the women too (forgive my folly), From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, XLVI. Eve of the land which still is Paradise! 4 Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire XLVII. 'England! with all thy faults I love thee still," I said at Calais, and have not forgot it: I like to speak and lucubrate 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 't is not too late ; * Note. In talking thus, the writer, more especially Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets Would seem unfinish'd like their untrimm❜d bonnets. (Signed) PRINTER'S DEVIL. XLVIII. ; I like the taxes, when they're not too many; XLIX. Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, L. But to my tale of Laura,-for, I find Digression is a sin, that, by degrees, Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, And, therefore, may the reader too displeaseThe gentle reader, who may wax unkind, And, caring little for the author's ease, Insist on knowing what he means—a hard And hapless situation for a bard. LI. Oh! that I had the art of easy writing What should be easy reading! could I scale Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing Those pretty poems never known to fail, How quickly would I print (the world delighting) A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale; And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, Some samples of the finest orientalism. LII. But I am but a nameless sort of person (A broken dandy lately on my travels), And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, |