Humming like flies around the newest blaze, | |
The bluest of bluebottles you e’er saw, | |
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, | |
590 | Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, |
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, | |
And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. | |
LXXV | |
One hates an author that’s | |
In foolscap uniforms turn’d up with ink, | |
595 | So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, |
One don’t know what to say to them, or think, | |
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows; | |
Of coxcombry’s worst coxcombs e’en the pink | |
Are preferable to these shreds of paper, | |
600 | These unquench’d snuffings of the midnight taper. |
LXXVI | |
Of these same we see several, and of others, | |
Men of the world, who know the world like men, | |
Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, | |
Who think of something else besides the pen; | |
605 | But for the children of the ‘mighty mother’s,’ |
The would-be wits and can’t-be gentlemen, | |
I leave them to their daily ‘tea is ready’,’ | |
Smug coterie, and literary lady. | |
LXXVII | |
The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention | |
610 | Have none of these instructive pleasant people, |
And | |
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple; | |
I think ’twould almost be worth while to pension | |
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) | |
615 | A missionary author, just to preach |
Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. | |
LXXVIII | |
No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses, | |
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, | |
No circulating library amasses | |
620 | Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures |
Upon the living manners, as they pass us; | |
No exhibition glares with annual pictures; | |
They stare not on the stars from out their attics, | |
Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics. | |
LXXIX | |
625 | Why I thank God for that is no great matter, |
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, | |
And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, | |
I’ll keep them for my life (to come) in prose; | |
I fear I have a little turn for satire, | |
630 | And yet methinks the older that one grows |
Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughte | |
Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. | |
LXXX | |
Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! | |
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days! | |
635 | In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, |
Abominable Man no more allays | |
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, | |
I love you both, and both shall have my praise: | |
Oh, for old Saturn’s reign of sugar-candy! – | |
640 | Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. |
LXXXI | |
Our Laura’s Turk still kept his eyes upon her, | |
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, | |
Which seems to say, ‘Madam, I do you honour, | |
And while I please to stare, you’ll please to stay:’ | |
645 | Could staring win a woman, this had won her, |
But Laura could not thus be led astray; | |
She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle | |
Even at this stranger’s most outlandish ogle. | |
LXXXII | |
The morning now was on the point of breaking, | |
650 | A turn of time at which I would advise |
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking | |
In any other kind of exercise, | |
To make their preparations for forsaking | |
The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, | |
655 | Because when once the lamps and candles fail, |
His blushes make them look a little pale. | |
LXXXIII | |
I’ve seen some balls and revels in my time, | |
And stay’d them over for some silly reason, | |
And then I look’d (I hope it was no crime) | |
660 | To see what lady best stood out the season; |
And though I’ve seen some thousands in their prime, | |
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, | |
I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn), | |
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. | |
LXXXIV | |
665 | The name of this Aurora I’ll not mention, |
Although I might, for she was nought to me | |
More than that patent work of God’s invention, | |
A charming woman, whom we like to see; | |
But writing names would merit reprehension, | |
670 | Yet if you like to find out this fair |
At the next London or Parisian ball | |
You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. | |
LXXXV | |
Laura, who knew it would not do at all | |
To meet the daylight after seven hours sitting | |
675 | Among three thousand people at a ball, |
To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting; | |
The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, | |
And they the room were on the point of quitting, | |
When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got | |
680 | Just in the very place where they |
LXXXVI | |
In this they’re like our coachmen, and the cause | |
Is much the same – the crowd, and pulling, hauling, | |
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, | |
They make a never intermitting bawling. | |
685 | At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, |
And here a sentry stands within your calling; | |
But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, | |
And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. | |
LXXXVII | |
The Count and Laura found their boat at last, | |
690 | And homeward floated o’er the silent tide, |
Discussing all the dances gone and past; | |
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside; | |
Some little scandals eke: but all aghast | |
(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) | |
695 | Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, |
When lo! the Mussulman was there before her. | |
LXXXVIII | |
‘Sir,’ said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, | |
‘Your unexpected presence here will make | |
It necessary for myself to crave | |
700 | Its import? But perhaps ’tis a mistake; |
I hope it is so; and at once to wave | |
All compliment, I hope so for | |
You understand my meaning, or you | |
‘Sir,’ (quoth the Turk) “tis no mistake at all. | |
LXXXIX | |
705 | ‘That lady is |
The lady’s changing cheek, as well it might; | |
But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, | |
Italian females don’t do so outright; | |
They only call a little on their saints, | |
710 | And then come to themselves, almost or quite; |
Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, | |
And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. | |
XC | |
She said, – what could she say? Why, not a word: | |
But the Count courteously invited in | |
715 | The stranger, much appeased by what he heard: |
‘Such things, perhaps, we’d best discuss within,’ | |
Said he; ‘don’t let us make ourselves absurd | |
In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, | |
For then the chief and only satisfaction | |
720 | Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction.’ |
XCI | |
They enter’d, and for coffee call’d – it came, | |
A beverage for Turks and Christians both, | |
Although the way they make it’s not the same. | |
Now Laura, much recover’d, or less loth | |
725 | To speak, cries ‘Beppo! what’s your pagan name? |
Bless me! your beard is of amazing growth! | |
And how came you to keep away so long? | |
Are you not sensible ’twas very wrong? | |
XCII | |
And are you | |
730 | With any other women did you wive? |
Is’t true they use their fingers for a fork? |