Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto V

A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness,
  Or any interesting beast of prey,
Are similes at hand for the distress
  Of ladies who can not have their own way;
But though my turn will not be served with less,
  These don't express one half what I should say:
For what is stealing young ones, few or many,
To cutting short their hopes of having any?

The love of offspring 's nature's general law,
  From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings;
There 's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw
  Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings;
And all who have seen a human nursery, saw
  How mothers love their children's squalls and chucklings;
This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer
Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger.

If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes,
  'T were nothing — for her eyes flash'd always fire;
Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes,
  I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer,
So supernatural was her passion's rise;
  For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire:
Even ye who know what a check'd woman is
(Enough, God knows!) would much fall short of this.

Her rage was but a minute's, and 't was well —
  A moment's more had slain her; but the while
It lasted 't was like a short glimpse of hell:
  Nought 's more sublime than energetic bile,
Though horrible to see yet grand to tell,
  Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle;
And the deep passions flashing through her form
Made her a beautiful embodied storm.

A vulgar tempest 't were to a typhoon
  To match a common fury with her rage,
And yet she did not want to reach the moon,
  Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page;
Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune,
  Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age —
Her wish was but to 'kill, kill, kill,' like Lear's,
And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears.

A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd,
  Pass'd without words — in fact she could not speak;
And then her sex's shame broke in at last,
  A sentiment till then in her but weak,
But now it flow'd in natural and fast,
  As water through an unexpected leak;
For she felt humbled — and humiliation
Is sometimes good for people in her station

It teaches them that they are flesh and blood,
  It also gently hints to them that others,
Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud;
  That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers,
And works of the same pottery, bad or good,
  Though not all born of the same sires and mothers:
It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches,
But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches.

Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head;
  Her second, to cut only his — acquaintance;
Her third, to ask him where he had been bred;
  Her fourth, to rally him into repentance;
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed;
  Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence
The lash to Baba: — but her grand resource
Was to sit down again, and cry of course.

She thought to stab herself, but then she had
  The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward;
For Eastern stays are little made to pad,
  So that a poniard pierces if 't is stuck hard:
She thought of killing Juan — but, poor lad!
  Though he deserved it well for being so backward,
The cutting off his head was not the art
Most likely to attain her aim — his heart.

Juan was moved; he had made up his mind
  To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish
For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined,
  Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish,
And thus heroically stood resign'd,
  Rather than sin — except to his own wish:
But all his great preparatives for dying
Dissolved like snow before a woman crying.

As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed,
  So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how;
And first he wonder'd why he had refused;
  And then, if matters could be made up now;
And next his savage virtue he accused,
  Just as a friar may accuse his vow,
Or as a dame repents her of her oath,
Which mostly ends in some small breach of both.

So he began to stammer some excuses;
  But words are not enough in such a matter,
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses
  Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter,
Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses;
  Just as a languid smile began to flatter
His peace was making, but before he ventured
Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd.

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