Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto IX

Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first
  Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain.
Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst,
  As an East Indian sunrise on the main.
These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst —
  So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain:
In vain! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands,
Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands!

Her next amusement was more fanciful;
  She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw
Into a Russian couplet rather dull
  The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew.
Her third was feminine enough to annul
  The shudder which runs naturally through
Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it best
To kill, and generals turn it into jest.

The two first feelings ran their course complete,
  And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth:
The whole court look'd immediately most sweet,
  Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth.
But when on the lieutenant at her feet
  Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth
Almost as much as on a new despatch,
Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch.

Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent,
  When wroth — while pleased, she was as fine a figure
As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent,
  Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour.
She could repay each amatory look you lent
  With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour
To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount
At sight, nor would permit you to discount.

With her the latter, though at times convenient,
  Was not so necessary; for they tell
That she was handsome, and though fierce look'd lenient,
  And always used her favourites too well.
If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went,
  Your 'fortune' was in a fair way 'to swell
A man' (as Giles says); for though she would widow all
Nations, she liked man as an individual.

What a strange thing is man? and what a stranger
  Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head,
And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger
  Is all the rest about her! Whether wed
Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her
  Mind like the wind: whatever she has said
Or done, is light to what she 'll say or do; —
The oldest thing on record, and yet new!

O Catherine! (for of all interjections,
  To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right
In love and war) how odd are the connections
  Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight!
Just now yours were cut out in different sections:
  First Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite;
Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch;
And thirdly he who brought you the despatch!

Shakspeare talks of 'the herald Mercury
  New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;'
And some such visions cross'd her majesty,
  While her young herald knelt before her still.
'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high,
  For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill
Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by God's blessing
With youth and health all kisses are 'heaven-kissing.'

Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up —
  And so they fell in love; — she with his face,
His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid's cup
  With the first draught intoxicates apace,
A quintessential laudanum or 'black drop,'
  Which makes one drunk at once, without the base
Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye
In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry.

He, on the other hand, if not in love,
  Fell into that no less imperious passion,
Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above
  Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion,
Or duchess, princess, empress, 'deigns to prove'
  ('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash one,
For one especial person out of many,
Makes us believe ourselves as good as any.

Besides, he was of that delighted age
  Which makes all female ages equal — when
We don't much care with whom we may engage,
  As bold as Daniel in the lion's den,
So that we can our native sun assuage
  In the next ocean, which may flow just then,
To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is
Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis.

And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine),
  Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing
Whose temporary passion was quite flattering,
  Because each lover look'd a sort of king,
Made up upon an amatory pattern,
  A royal husband in all save the ring —
Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony,
Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey.

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