Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto IX

And when you add to this, her womanhood
  In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray
(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good,
  Or better, as the best examples say:
Napoleon's, Mary's (queen of Scotland), should
  Lend to that colour a transcendent ray;
And Pallas also sanctions the same hue,
Too wise to look through optics black or blue) —

Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure,
  Her plumpness, her imperial condescension,
Her preference of a boy to men much bigger
  (Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension),
Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour,
  With other extras, which we need not mention, —
All these, or any one of these, explain
Enough to make a stripling very vain.

And that 's enough, for love is vanity,
  Selfish in its beginning as its end,
Except where 't is a mere insanity,
  A maddening spirit which would strive to blend
Itself with beauty's frail inanity,
  On which the passion's self seems to depend:
And hence some heathenish philosophers
Make love the main spring of the universe.

Besides Platonic love, besides the love
  Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving
Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove,
  That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving
'Gainst reason — Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove
  With rhyme, but always leant less to improving
The sound than sense) — beside all these pretences
To love, there are those things which words name senses;

Those movements, those improvements in our bodies
  Which make all bodies anxious to get out
Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess,
  For such all women are at first no doubt.
How beautiful that moment! and how odd is
  That fever which precedes the languid rout
Of our sensations! What a curious way
The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay!

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical,
  To end or to begin with; the next grand
Is that which may be christen'd love canonical,
  Because the clergy take the thing in hand;
The third sort to be noted in our chronicle
  As flourishing in every Christian land,
Is when chaste matrons to their other ties
Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise.

Well, we won't analyse — our story must
  Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten,
Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust; —
  I cannot stop to alter words once written,
And the two are so mix'd with human dust,
  That he who names one, both perchance may hit on:
But in such matters Russia's mighty empress
Behaved no better than a common sempstress.

The whole court melted into one wide whisper,
  And all lips were applied unto all ears!
The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper
  As they beheld; the younger cast some leers
On one another, and each lovely lisper
  Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er; but tears
Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye
Of all the standing army who stood by.

All the ambassadors of all the powers
  Enquired, Who was this very new young man,
Who promised to be great in some few hours?
  Which is full soon — though life is but a span.
Already they beheld the silver showers
  Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can,
Upon his cabinet, besides the presents
Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants.

Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are:
  Love, that great opener of the heart and all
The ways that lead there, be they near or far,
  Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, —
Love (though she had a cursed taste for war,
  And was not the best wife, unless we call
Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 't is better
That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) —

Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune,
  Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth,
Whose avarice all disbursements did importune,
  If history, the grand liar, ever saith
The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten,
  Because she put a favourite to death,
Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation,
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station.

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