The Works of Lord Byron Volume IV Part 31

x.x.xVI.

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, (Although, G.o.d 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 or cares a pin; An we may call this (not to say the worst) A _second_ marriage which corrupts the _first_.

x.x.xVII.

The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo,"[211]

But _that_ is now grown vulgar and indecent; The Spaniards call the person a "_Cortejo_,"[212]

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?

x.x.xVIII.[213]

However, I still think, with all due deference To the fair _single_ part of the creation, That married ladies should preserve the preference In _tete a tete_ or general conversation-- And this I say without peculiar reference To England, France, or any other nation-- Because they know the world, and are at ease, And being natural, naturally please.

x.x.xIX.

'Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming, But shy and awkward at first coming out, So much alarmed, that she is quite alarming, All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout; And glancing at _Mamma_, for fear there's harm in What you, she, it, or they, may be about: The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter-- Besides, they always smell of bread and b.u.t.ter.[214]

XL.

But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase Used in politest circles to express This supernumerary slave, who stays Close to the lady as a part of dress, Her word the only law which he obeys.

His is no sinecure, as you may guess; Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl.

XLI.

With all its sinful doings, I must say, That Italy's a pleasant place to me, Who love to see the Sun shine every day, And vines (not nailed to walls) from tree to tree Festooned, much like the back scene of a play, Or melodrame, which people flock to see, When the first act is ended by a dance In vineyards copied from the South of France.

XLII.

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, Without being forced to bid my groom be sure My cloak is round his middle strapped about, Because the skies are not the most secure; I know too that, if stopped upon my route, Where the green alleys windingly allure, Reeling with _grapes_ red wagons choke the way,-- In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray.

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; the day will break as Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers.

XLIV.

I love the language, that soft b.a.s.t.a.r.d Latin,[215]

Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,[216]

With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

XLV.

I like the women too (forgive my folly!), From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,[bl]

And large black eyes that flash on you a volley Of rays that say a thousand things at once, To the high Dama's brow, more melancholy, But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.[bm]

XLVI.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise!

Italian Beauty didst thou not inspire Raphael,[217] who died in thy embrace, and vies With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, In what he hath bequeathed us?--in what guise, Though flashing from the fervour of the Lyre, Would _words_ describe thy past and present glow, While yet Canova[218] can create below?[219]

XLVII.

"England! with all thy faults I love thee still,"[220]

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 'tis not too late;

XLVIII.

I like the taxes, when they're not too many; I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear; I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any; Have no objection to a pot of beer; I like the weather,--when it is not rainy, That is, I like two months of every year.

And so G.o.d save the Regent, Church, and King!

Which means that I like all and every thing.

XLIX.

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, Our little riots just to show we're free men, Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, All these I can forgive, and those forget, And greatly venerate our recent glories, And wish they were not owing to the Tories.

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 displease-- The 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 Parna.s.sus, where the Muses sit inditing Those pretty poems never known to fail, How quickly would I print (the world delighting) A Grecian, Syrian,[221] or _a.s.s_yrian tale; And sell you, mixed with western Sentimentalism, Some samples of the _finest Orientalism._

LII.

But I am but a nameless sort of person, (A broken Dandy[222] lately on my travels) And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils; I've half a mind to tumble down to prose, But verse is more in fashion--so here goes!

LIII.

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, For half a dozen years without estrangement; They had their little differences, too; Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant; In such affairs there probably are few Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, From sinners of high station to the rabble.

LIV.

But, on the whole, they were a happy pair, As happy as unlawful love could make them; The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to break them: The World beheld them with indulgent air; The pious only wished "the Devil take them!"

He took them not; he very often waits, And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits.

LV.

But they were young: Oh! what without our Youth Would Love be! What would Youth be without Love!

Youth lends its joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above; But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth-- One of few things Experience don't improve; Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows Are always so preposterously jealous.

LVI.

It was the Carnival, as I have said Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so Laura the usual preparations made, Which you do when your mind's made up to go To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade,[223]

Spectator, or Partaker in the show; The only difference known between the cases Is--_here_, we have six weeks of "varnished faces."