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CCXII. 'Tis the perception of the beautiful,

A fine extension of the faculties Platonio, universal, wonderful,

Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull;

In short, 'tis the use of our own eyes
With one or two small senses added, just
To hint that flesh is form’d of fiery dust.

Yet 'tis a painful feeling, and unwilling,

For surely if we always could perceive
In the same object graces quite as killing,

As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 'Twould save us many an heart-ache, many a shilling,

(For we must get them any how, or grieve,) Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever, How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver !


The beart is like the sky, a part of heaven,

But changes night and day too, like the sky;
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven,

And darkness and destruction as on high :
But when it batb been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven,

Its storms expire in water drops; the eye
Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears,
Which make the English climate of our years.

The liver is the lazaret of bile,

But very rarely executes its function,
For the first passion stays there such a while,

That all the rest creep in and form a junction,
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd " central."

In the mean time, without proceeding more

In this anatomy, I've finished now
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,

That being about the number I'll allow Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ;

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead For them and theirs with all who deign to read.




Hail Muse! et cetera.--We left Juan sleeping,

Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast,
And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping,

And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest,
To feel the poison through her spirit creeping,

Or know who rested there; a foe to rest
Had soil'd the current of her sinless years,
And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears.

Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours

Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah! why
With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers,

And made thy best interpreter a sigh?
As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,

And place them on their breast—but place to die--
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Aro laid within our bosoms but to perish.

In her first passion woman loves her lover,

In all the others all she loves is love,
Which grows a babit she can ne'er get over,

And fits her loosely, like an easy glove,
As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her:

One man alone at first her heart can move;
She then prefers him in the plural number,
Not finding that the additions much'enoumber.


I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ;

But one thing's pretty sure; a woman planted (Unless at once she plunge in life for prayers)

After a decent time must be gallanted ; Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted; Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, But those who have ne'er end with only one.

'Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign

Of human frailty, folly, also crime,
That love and marriage rarely can combine,

Although they both are born in the same clime ;
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine-

A sad, sour, sober beverage by time
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour
Down to a very homely household savour.

There's something of antipathy, as 'twere,

Between their present and their future state;
A kind of flattery that's hardly fair

Is used until the truth arrives too late Yet what can people do, except despair ?

The same things change their names at such a rate;
For instance---passion in a lover's glorious,
But in a husband is pronounced uxorious,

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ;

They sometimes also get a little tired,
(But that, of course, is rare) and then despond :

The same things cannot always be admired, Yet 'tis " so nominated in the bond,"

That both are tied 'till one shall have expired. Sad thought' to lose the spouse that was adorning Our days, and put one's servants into mourning.

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