Lord Byron: "Beppo"

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LORD

BYRON

“BEPPO”
1817

“Mad, Bad and


Dangerous to
Know”
Lady Caroline Lamb
I IV.
'T is known, at least it should be, that throughout You'd better walk about begirt with briars,
All countries of the Catholic persuasion, Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on
Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, A single stitch reflecting upon friars,
The people take their fill of recreation, Although you swore it only was in fun;
And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires
However high their rank, or low their station, Of Phlegethon with every mother's son,
With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking, Nor say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble
And other things which may be had for asking. That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double.

II. V.
The moment night with dusky mantle covers But saving this, you may put on whate'er
The skies ( and the more duskily the better ), You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak.
The time less liked by husbands than by lovers Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair,
Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter; Would rig you out in seriousness or joke;
And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers, And even in Italy such places are,
Giggling with all the gallants who beset her; With prettier name in softer accents spoke,
And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on
Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. No place that's called "Piazza" in Great Britain.

III. VI.
And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, This feast is named the Carnival, which being
Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, Interpreted, implies "farewell to flesh:"
And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing,
Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos; Through Lent they live on fish, both salt and fresh.
All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, But why they usher Lent with so much glee in,
All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, Is more than I can tell, although I guess
But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, --- 'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting,
Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers! I charge ye. In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting,
VII. X.
And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, Of all the places where the Carnival
And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts, Was most facetious in the days of yore,
To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes, For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball,
Because they have no sauces to their stews; And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more
A thing which causes many "poohs" and "pishes," Than I have time to tell now, or at all,
And several oaths ( which would not suit the Muse ), Venice the bell from every city bore, ---
From travellers accustom'd from a boy And at the moment when I fix my story,
To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy; That sea-born city was in all her glory.

VIII. XI.
And therefore humbly I would recommend They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians,
"The curious in fish-sauce, " before they cross Black-eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still;
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, Such as of old were copied from the Grecians,
Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill;
( Or if set out beforehand, these may send And like so many Venuses of Titian's
By any means least liable to loss ) ( The best's at Florence --- see it, if ye will ),
Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, They look when leaning over the balcony,
Or by the Lord ! a Lent will well nigh starve ye; Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione,

IX. XII.
That is to say, if your religion's Roman, Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best;
And you at Rome would do as Romans do, And when you to Manfrini's palace go,
According to the proverb, --- although no man That picture ( howsoever fine the rest )
If foreign, is obliged to fast; and you Is loveliest to my mind of all the show;
If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman, It may perhaps be also to your zest,
Would rather dine in sin on a ragout --- And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so:
Dine and be d----d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 'Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife,
But that's the penalty, to say no worse. And self; but such a woman! love in life !
XIII. XVI.
Love in full life and length, not love ideal, For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs,
No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter,
But something better still, so very real, Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries,
That the sweet model must have been the same; Who do such things because they know no better;
A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, And then, God knows what mischief may arise,
Were 't not impossible, besides a shame: When love links two young people in one fetter,
The face recalls some face, as't were with pain, Vile assignations, and adulterous beds,
You once have seen, but ne'er will see again. Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads.

XIV. XVII.
One of those forms which flit by us, when we Shakespeare described the sex in Desdemona
Are young, and fix our eyes on every face; As very fair, but yet suspect in fame,
And, oh! the loveliness at times we see And to this day from Venice to Verona
In momentary gliding, the soft grace, Such matters may be probably the same,
The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, Except that since those times was never known a
In many a nameless being we retrace, Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame
whose course, and home we knew not, nor shall know, To suffocate a wife no more than twenty,
Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below. Because she had a "cavalier servente."

XV. XVIII.
I said that like a picture by Giorgione Their jealousy ( if they are ever jealous )
Venetian women were, and so they are, Is of a fair complexion altogether,
Particularly seen from a balcony Not like that sooty devil of Othello's,
( For beauty's sometimes best set off afar ), Which smothers women in a bed of feather,
And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, But worthier of these much more jolly fellows,
They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar; When weary of the matrimonial tether
And truth to say, they're mostly very pretty, His head for such a wife no mortal bothers,
And rather like to show it, more's the pity ! But takes at once another, or another's.
XIX. XXII.
Didst ever see a Gondola? For fear She was not old, nor young, nor at the years
You should not, I'll describe it you exactly: Which certain people call a "certain age,"
"Tis a long cover'd boat that's common here, Which yet the most uncertain age appears,
Carved at the prow, build lightly, but compactly, Because I never heard, nor could engage
Row'd by two rowers, each call'd "Gondolier," A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears,
It glides along the water looking blackly, To name, define by speech, or write on page,
Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, The period meant precisely by that word, ---
Where none can make out what you say or do. Which surely is exceedingly absurd.

XX.
And up and down the long canals they go, XXIII.
And under the Rialto shoot along, Laura was blooming still, had made the best
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, Of time, and time return'd the compliment,
And round the theatres, a sable throng, She look'd extremely well where'er she went;
They wait in their dusk livery of woe, --- A pretty woman is a welcome guest,
But not to them do woeful things belong, And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent;
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, Indeed, she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter
Like mourning coaches when the funeral's done. Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her.

XXI. XXIV.
But to my story. --- 'Twas some years ago, She was a married woman; 'tis convenient,
It may be thirty, forty, more or less, Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule
The Carnival was at its height, and so To view their little slips with eyes more lenient;
Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress; Whereas if single ladies play the fool
A certain lady went to see the show, ( Unless within the period intervenient
Her real name I know not, nor can guess, A well-times wedding makes the scandal cool ),
And so we'll call her Laura, if you please, I don't know how they ever can get over it,
Because it slips into my verse with ease. Except they manage never to discover it.
XXV. XXVIII.
Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 'Tis said that their last parting was pathetic,
And made some voyages, too, in other seas, As partings often are, or ought to be,
And when he lay in quarantine for pratique And their presentiment was quite prophetic,
( A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease ), That they should never more each other see,
His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, ( A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic,
For thence she could discern the ship with ease; Which I have known occur in two or three, )
He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee
His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo. He left this Adriatic Ariadne.

XXVI. XXIX.
He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, And Laura waited long, and wept a little,
Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure; And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might;
Though colour'd, as it were, within a tan-yard, She almost lost all appetite for victual,
He was a person both of sense and vigour --- And could not sleep with ease along at night;
A better seaman never yet did man yard; She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle
And she, although her manners show'd no rigour, Against a daring housebreaker or sprite,
Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, And so she thought it prudent to connect her.
So much as to be thought almost invincible. With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her.

XXVII. XXX.
But several years elapsed since they had met; She chose, ( and what is there they will not choose,
Some people thought the ship was lost, and some If only you will but oppose their choice? )
That he had somehow blunder'd into debt, Till Beppo should return from his long cruise,
And did not like the thought of steering home; And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice,
And there were several offer'd any bet, A man some women like, and yet abuse ---
Or that he would, or that he would not come; A coxcomb was he by the public voice;
For most men ( till by losing render'd sager ) A Count of wealth, they said, as well as quality,
Will back their own opinions with a wager. And in his pleasures of great liberality.
XXXI. XXIV.
And then he was A Count, and then he knew Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous;
Music, and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscan; So that no sort of female could complain,
The last not easy, be it known to you. Although they're now and then a little clamourous,
For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. He never put the pretty souls in pain;
He was a critic upon operas, too, His heart was one of those which most enamour us,
And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin; Wax to receive, and marble to retain:
And no Venetian audience could endure a He was a lover of the good old school,
Song, scene, or air, when he cried "seccatura ! " Who still become more constant as they cool.

XXXII. XXXV.
His "bravo" was decisive, for that sound No wonder such accomplishments should turn
Hush'd "Academie" sigh'd in silent awe; A female head, however sage and steady ---
The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, With scarce a hope that Beppo could return,
For fear of some false note's detected flaw; In law he was almost as good as dead, he
The "prima donna's" tuneful heart would bound, Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern,
Dreading the deep damnation of his "bah ! " And she had waited several years already;
Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, And really if a man won't let us know
Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so.

XXXIII. XXXVI.
He patronised the Improvisatori, Besides, within the Alps, to every woman,
Nay, could himself extemporise some stanzas, ( Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin, )
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men;
Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as I can't tell who first brought the custom in,
Italians can be, though in this their glory But "Cavalier Serventes" are quite common,
Must surely yield the palm to that which France has; And no one notices nor cares a pin;
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, And we may call this ( not to say the worst )
And to his very valet seem'd a hero. A second marriage which corrupts the first.
XXXVII. XL.
The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo," But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase
But that is now grown vulgar and indecent; Used in politest circles to express
The Spaniards call the person a "Cortejo," This supernumerary slave, who stays
For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent; Close to the lady as a part of dress,
In short, it reaches from the Po to Teio, Her word the only law which he obeys.
And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent: His is no sinecure, as you may guess;
But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses ! Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call,
Or what becomes of damage and divorces? And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl.

XXXVIII. XLI.
However, I still think, with all due deference With all its sinful doings, I must say,
To the fair single part of the creation, That Italy's a pleasant place to me,
That married ladies should preserve the preference Who love to see the Sun shine every day,
In tête-à-tête or general conversation --- And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree
And this I say without peculiar reference Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play,
To England, France, or any other nation --- Or melodrame, which people flock to see,
Because they know the world, and are at ease, When the first act is ended by a dance
And being natural, naturally please. In vineyards copied from the south of France.

XXXIX. XLII.
"Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming, I like on Autumn evenings to ride out,
But shy and awkward at first coming out, Without being forced to bid my groom be sure
So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming, My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about,
All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half-Pout; Because the skies are not the most secure;
And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route,
What you, she, it, or they, may be about, Where the green alleys windingly allure,
The nursery still lisps out in all they utter --- Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the way, ---
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. In England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray.
XLIII. XLVI.
I also like to dine on becaficas, Eve of the land which still is Paradise !
To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise tomorrow, Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies
A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, With all we know of Heaven, or can desire,
But with all Heaven t'himself; the day will break as In what he hath bequeath'd us? --- in what guise,
Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre,
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers Would words describe thy past and present glow,
Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. While yet Canova can create below?

XLIV. XLVII.
I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, "England ! with all thy faults I love thee still,"
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, I said at Calais, and have not forgot it;
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;
With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, I like the government ( but that is not it );
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, I like the freedom of the press and quill;
That not a single accent seems uncouth, I like the Hapeas Corpus ( when we've got it );
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, I like a parliamentary debate,
Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. Particularly when 'tis not too late;

XLV. XLVIII.
I like the women too ( forgive my folly ), I like the taxes, when they're not too many;
From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze, I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any;
Of rays that say a thousand things at once, Have no objection to a pot of beer;
To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, I like the weather, when it is not rainy,
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, That is, I like two months of every year,
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, And so God save the Regent, Church, and King !
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. Which means that I like all and everything.
XLIX. LII.
Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, But I am but a nameless sort of person,
Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, ( A broken Dandy lately on my travels )
Our little riots just to show we are free men, And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on,
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, And when I can't find that, I put a worse on,
All these I can forgive, and those forget, Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils;
And greatly venerate our recent glories, I've half a mind to tumble down to prose,
And wish they were not owing to the Tories. But verse is more in fashion --- so here goes.

L. LIII.
But to my tale of Laura, --- for I find The Count and Laura made their new arrangement,
Digression is a sin, that by degrees Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do,
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, For half a dozen years without estrangement;
And, therefore, may the reader too displease --- They had their little differences, too;
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant;
And caring little for the author's ease, In such affairs there probably are few
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble,
And hapless situation for a bard. From sinners of high station to the rabble.

LI. LIV.
Oh that I had the art of easy writing But on the whole, they were a happy pair,
What should be easy reading ! could I scale As happy as unlawful love could make them;
Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing The gentleman was fond, the lady fair,
Those pretty poems never known to fail, Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to break them;
How quickly would I print ( the world delighting ) The world beheld them with indulgent air;
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale; The pious only wish'd "the devil take them ! "
And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, He took them not; he very often waits,
Some samples of the finest Orientalism ! And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits.
LV. LVIII.
But they were young: Oh ! what without our youth They went to the Ridotto; --- 'tis a hall
Would love be ! What would youth be without love ! Where people dance, and sup, and dance again;
Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball,
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above; But that's of no importance to my strain;
But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth --- 'Tis ( on a smaller scale ) like our Vauxhall,
One of few things experience don't improve, Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain;
Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows The company is "mix'd" ( the phrase I quote is
Are always so preposterously jealous. As much as saying they're below your notice );

LVI. LIX.
It was the Carnival, as I have said For a "mix'd company" implies that, save
Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more,
Laura the usual preparations made, Whom you may bow to without looking grave,
Which you do when your mind's made up to go The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore
To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, Of public places, where they basely brave
Spectator, or partaker in the show; The fashionable stare of twenty score
The only difference known between the cases Of well-bred persons, call'd "The World;" but I,
Is -- here, we have six weeks of "varnish'd faces." Although I know them, really don't know why.

LVII. LX.
Laura, when dress'd, was ( as I sang before ) This is the case in England; at least was
A pretty woman as was ever seen, During the dynasty of Dandies, now
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, Perchance succeeded by some other class
Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, Of imitated imitators: --- how
With all the fashions which the last month wore, Irreparably soon decline, alas !
Colour'd, and silver paper leaved between The demagogues of fashion: all below
That and the title-page, for fear the press Is frail; how easily the world is lost
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. By love, or war, and now and then by frost !
LXI. LXIV.
Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, They went to the Ridotto ( 'tis a place
Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, To which I mean to go myself to-morrow,
Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or Just to divert my thoughts a little space,
A blundering novice in his new French grammar; Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow,
Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face
And as for Fortune --- but I dare not d--n her, May lurk beneath each mask; and as my sorrow
Because, were I to ponder to infinity, Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find,
The more I should believe in her divinity. Something shall leave it half an hour behind ).

LXII. LXV.
She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd,
She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage; Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips;
I cannot say that she's done much for me yet; To some she whispers, others speaks aloud;
Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, To some she curtsies, and to some she dips,
We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet; Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd,
How much she'll make amends for past miscarriage. Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips;
Meantime the Goddess I'll no more importune, She then surveys, condemns, but pities still
Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune. Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill.

LXIII. LXVI.
To turn, --- and return; --- the devil take it ! One has false curls, another too much paint,
This story slips for ever through my fingers, A third --- where did she buy that frightful turban?
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint,
It needs must be, and so it rather lingers: A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban,
This form of verse began, I can't well break it, A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint,
But must keep time and tune like public singers; A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane,
But if I once get through my present measure, And lo! an eighth appears, --- "I'll see no more ! "
I'll take another when I'm at leisure. For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score.
LXVII. LXX.
Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany;
Others were leveling their looks at her; And Laura saw him, and at first was glad,
She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising, Because the Turks so much admire phylogyny,
And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir; Although their usage of their wives is sad;
The women only thought it quite amazing 'Tis said they use no better than a dog any
That, at her time of life, so many were Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad;
Admirers still, --- but men are so debased, They have a number, though the ne'er exhibit 'em,
Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. Four wives by law, and concubines: ad libitum."

LXVIII. LXXI.
For my part, now, I ne'er could understand They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily,
Why naughty women --- but I won't discuss They scarcely can behold their male relations,
A thing which is a scandal to the land, So that their moments do not pass so gaily
I only don't see why it should be thus; As is supposed the case with northern nations;
And if I were but in a gown and band, Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely;
Just to entitle me to make a fuss, And as the Turks abhor long conversations,
I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly Their days are either pass'd in doing nothing,
Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing.

LXIX. LXXII.
While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling, They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism;
Talking, she knew not why, and cared not what, Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse;
So that her female friends, with envy broiling, Were never caught in epigram or witticism,
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that; Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, ---
And well-dress'd males still kept before her filing, In harams learning soon would make a pretty schism,
And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat; But luckily these beauties are no "Blues;"
More than the rest one person seem'd to stare No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em
With pertinacity that's rather rare. "That charming passage in the last new poem;"
LXXIII. LXXVI.
No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, Of these same we see several, and of others,
Who having angled all his life for fame, Men of the world, who know the world like men,
And getting but a nibble at a time, Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers,
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same Who think of something else besides the pen;
Small "Triton of the minnows," the sublime But for the children of the "mighty mother's,"
Of mediocrity, the furious tame, The would-be wits, and can't-be gentlemen,
The echo's echo, usher of the school I leave them to their daily "tea is ready,"
Of female wits, boy bards --- in short, a fool ! Smug coterie, and literary lady.

LXXIV. LXXVII
A stalking oracle of awful phrase The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention
The approving "Good ! " ( By no means good in law, ) Have none of these instructive pleasant people,
Humming like flies around the newest blaze, And one would seem to them a new invention,
The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple;
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, I think 't would almost be worth while to pension
Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, ( though best-sown projects ver often reap ill )
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, A missionary author, just to preach
And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. Our Christian usage of the parts of speech.

LXXV. LXXVIII.
One hates an author that's all author, fellows No chemistry for them unfolds her gases,
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, No metaphysics are let loose in lectures,
So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, No circulating library amasses
One do'nt know what to say to them, or think, Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows; Upon the living manners, as they pass us;
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink No exhibition glares with annual pictures;
Are preferable to these shreds of paper, They stare not on the stars from out their attics,
These unquench'd snufflings of the midnight taper. Nor deal ( thank God for that ! ) in mathematics.
LXXIX. LXXXII
Why I thank God for that is no great matter, The morning now was on the point of breaking
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, A turn of time at which I would advise
And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking
I'll keep them for my life ( to come ) in prose; In any other kind of exercise,
I fear I have a little turn for satire, To make their preparations for forsaking
And yet methinks the older that one grows The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise,
Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter Because when once the lamps and candles fail,
Leaves us no doubly serious shortly after. His blushes make them look a little pale.

LXXX. LXXXIII.
Oh, mirth and innocence ! Oh, milk and water ! I've seen some balls and revels in my time,
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! And stay'd them over for some silly reason,
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, And then I look'd ( I hope it was no crime )
Abominable Man no more allays To see what lady best stood out the season,
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, And though I've seen some thousands in their prime,
I love you both, and both shall have my praise; Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on,
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! --- I never saw but one ( the stars withdrawn )
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn.

LXXXI. LXXXIV.
Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, The name of this Aurora I'll not mention,
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, Although I might, for she was nought to me
Which seems to say, "Madam, I do you honour, More than that patent work of God's invention,
And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay ! " A charming woman, whom we like to see;
Could staring win a woman, this had won her, But writing names would merit reprehension,
But Laura could not thus be led astray; Yet if you like to find out this fair she,
She had stood fire too long and well, is boggle At the next London or Parisian ball
Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. You still may mark her cheek out-blooming all.
LXXXV. LXXXVIII.
Laura, who knew it would not do at all "Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave,
To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting "Your unexpected presence here will make
Among three thousand people at a ball, It necessary for myself to crave
To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting; Its import? But perhaps 'tis a mistake;
The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, I hope it is so; and, at once to waive
And they the room were on the point of quitting, All compliment, I hope so for your sake;
When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got You understand my meaning, or you shall,"
Just in the very place where they should not. "Sir" ( quoth the Turk ), "'tis no mistake at all:

LXXXVI. LXXXIX.
In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause "That lady is my wife ! " Much wonder paints
Is much the same --- the crowd, and pulling, hauling, The lady's changing cheek, as well it might;
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints,
They make a never intermitted bawling. Italian females don't do so outright;
At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, They only call a little on their saints,
And here a sentry stands within your calling; And then come to themselves, almost or quite;
But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces,
And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. And cutting stays, as usual in such cases.

LXXXVII. XC.
The Count and Laura found their boat at last, She said, --- what could she say? Why, not a word:
And homeward floated o'er the silent tied, But the Count courteously invited in
Discussing all the dances gone and past; The stranger, much appeased by what he heard:
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside; "Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss within,"
Some little scandals eke; but all aghast Said he; "don't let us make ourselves absurd
( As to their palace-stairs the rowers glide ) In public, by a scene, nor raise a din,
Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, For then the chief and only satisfaction
When lo! the Mussulman was there before her. Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction."
XCI. XCIV.
They enter'd, and for coffee call'd --- it came, What answer Beppo made to these demands
A beverage for Turks and Christians both, Is more than I know. He was cast away
Although the way they make it's not the same. About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands;
Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth Became a slave of course, and for his pay
To speak, cries "Beppo ! what's your pagan name? Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands
Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay,
And how came you to keep away so long? He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became
Are you not sensible 't was very wrong? A renegado of indifferent fame.

XCII. XCV.
"And are you really, truly, now a Turk? But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so
With any other women did you wive? Keen the desire to see his home again,
Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork? He thought himself in duty bound to do so,
Well, that's the prettiest shawl --- as I'm alive ! And not be always thieving on the main;
You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork. Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe,
And how so many years did you contrive And so he hired a vessel come from Spain,
To --- Bless me! did I ever? No, I never Bound for Corfu: she was a fine polacca,
Saw a man grown so yellow ! How's your liver? Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco.

XCIII. XCVI.
"Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you not; Himself, and much ( Heaven knows how gotten ! ) cash,
It shall be shaved before you're a day older: He then embark'd, with risk of life and limb
Why do you wear it? Oh ! I had forgot --- And got clear off, although the attempt was rash;
Pray do'nt you think the weather here is colder? He said that Providence protected him ---
How do I look? You shan't stir from this spot For my part, I say nothing --- lest we clash
In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder In our opinions: --- well, the ship was trim,
Should find you out, and make the story known. Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on,
How short your hair is! Lord! how grey it's grown ! " Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn.
XCVII.
They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading
And self and live stock to another bottom,
And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading
With goods of various names, but I've forgot'em.
However, he got off by this evading,
Or else the people would perhaps have shot him;
And thus at Venice landed to reclaim
His wife, religion, house, and Christian name.

XCVIII.
His wife received, the patriarch re-baptised him
( He made the church a present, by the way );
He then threw off the garments which disguised him,
And borrow'd the Count's small clothes for a day:
His friends the more for his long absence prized him,
Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay,
With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them,
For stories --- but I don't believe the half of them.

XCIX.
Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age
With wealth and talking made him some amends;
Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage,
I've heard the Count and he were always friends.
My pen is at the bottom of a page,
Which being finish'd, here the story ends;
'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done,
But stories somehow lengthen when begun.

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