ePub 版


ST. 35-44.

His heart was one of those which most | But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase

enamour us,

Wax to receive, and marble to retain.
He was a lover of the good old school,
Who still become more constant as they cool.

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Besides, within the Alps, to every woman
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,)
Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men
I can't tell who first brought the custom in;
But "Cavalier Serventes" are quite common,
And no one notices, nor cares a pin;
And we may call this (not to say the worst)
A second marriage which corrupts the first.

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

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
Who love to see the Sun shine every day,

Festoon'd, much like the back-scene of a
to tree

Or melodrame, which people flock to see,
In vineyards copied from the south of
When the first act is ended by a dance

Without being forced to bid my groom be
I like on Autumn-evenings to ride out,


My cloak is round his middle strapp'd The word was formerly a “Cicisbeo," about, But that is now grown vulgar and indecent; I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, Because the skies are not the most secure; The Spaniards call the person a "Cortejo," Where the green alleys windingly allure, For the same mode subsists in Spain, though | Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the way

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?

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In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray.

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But with all heaven t'himself; that day
will break as
Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to

That sort of farthing-candlelight which
Where reeking London's smoky cauldron

Which melts like kisses from a female
I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,
With syllables which breathe of the sweet

That not a single accent seems uncouth,
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunt-
Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and
ing guttural,
sputter all.

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For a "mixt company" implies that, save Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more,

Whom you may bow to without looking grave,

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.

They went to the Ridotto: ('tis a place To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, Just to divert my thoughts a little space, Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face

The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore
Of public places, where they basely brave May lurk beneath each mask, and as my
The fashionable stare of twenty score
Of well-bred persons, called “the World;" | Slackens its pace

but I,

Although I know them, really don't know Something shall



sometimes, I'll make, or find leave it half an hour behind.)

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, | He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany; Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips; | And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, To some she whispers, others speaks aloud; Because the Turks so much admire phiTo some she curtsies, and to some she dips, logyny, Complains of warmth, and this complaint Although their usage of their wives is sad; 'Tis said they use no better than a dog any Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad:


Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips; |
She then surveys, condemns, but pities still
Her dearest friends for being drest so ill.

One has false curls, another too much paint,
A third-where did she buy that frightful

A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to
A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint,
A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her

And lo! an eighth appears,-"I'll see no more!"

For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach

a score.

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing,

Others were levelling their looks at her;
She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode
of praising,

And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir;
The women only thought it quite amazing
That at her time of life so many were
Admirers still,- but men are so debased,
Those brazen creatures always suit their


For my part, now, I ne'er could understand
Why naughty women-but I won't discuss
A thing which is a scandal to the land,
I only don't see why it should be thus;
And if I were but in a gown and band,
Just to entitle me to make a fuss,
I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and
Should quote in their next speeches from
my homily.

While Laura thus was seen and seeing,
Talking, she knew not why and cared not

So that her female friends, with envy broil-
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that;
And well drest males still kept before her

And passing bow'd and mingled with her
More than the rest one person seem'd to stare
With pertinacity that's rather rare.

They have a number, though they ne'er
exhibit 'em,
Four wives by law, and concubines “ad
libitum. "

They lock them up, and veil, and guard
them daily,
They scarcely can behold their male re-
So that their moments do not pass so gaily
As is supposed the case with northern
Confinement, too, must make them look
quite palely:
And as the Turks abhor long conversations,
Their days are either past in doing nothing,
Or bathing, nursing, making love, and

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism;

Nor write, and so they don't affect the

Were never caught in epigram or witticism,
Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews,—
In harams learning soon would make a
pretty schism!

But luckily these beauties are no “blues,”
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em
"That charming passage in the last new

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme,
Who having angled all his life for fame,
And getting but a nibble at a time,
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same
Small "Triton of the minnows," the sublime
Of mediocrity, the furious tame,
The echo's echo, usher of the school
Of female wits, boy-bards-in short, a fool!

A stalking oracle of awful phrase,
The approving "Good!" (by no means GOOD
in law)
Humming like flies around the newest blaze,
The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw,
Teasing with blame, excruciating with

Gorging the little fame he gets all raw,
Translating tongues he knows not even by
And sweating plays so middling, bad were

One hates an author, that's all author, | Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and fellows Water!

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