Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XII

I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about —
  As who has not, if female, young, and pretty?
But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd about;
  She merely was deem'd amiable and witty,
And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about:
  Then she was given to charity and pity,
And pass'd (at least the latter years of life)
For being a most exemplary wife.

High in high circles, gentle in her own,
  She was the mild reprover of the young,
Whenever — which means every day — they 'd shown
  An awkward inclination to go wrong.
The quantity of good she did 's unknown,
  Or at the least would lengthen out my song:
In brief, the little orphan of the East
Had raised an interest in her, which increased.

Juan, too, was a sort of favourite with her,
  Because she thought him a good heart at bottom,
A little spoil'd, but not so altogether;
  Which was a wonder, if you think who got him,
And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither:
  Though this might ruin others, it did not him,
At least entirely — for he had seen too many
Changes in youth, to be surprised at any.

And these vicissitudes tell best in youth;
  For when they happen at a riper age,
People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth,
  And wonder Providence is not more sage.
Adversity is the first path to truth:
  He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage,
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty,
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty.

How far it profits is another matter.-
  Our hero gladly saw his little charge
Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter
  Being long married, and thus set at large,
Had left all the accomplishments she taught her
  To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor's barge,
To the next comer; or — as it will tell
More Muse-like — like to Cytherea's shell.

I call such things transmission; for there is
  A floating balance of accomplishment
Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss,
  According as their minds or backs are bent.
Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss
  Of metaphysics; others are content
With music; the most moderate shine as wits;
While others have a genius turn'd for fits.

But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords,
  Theology, fine arts, or finer stays,
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords
  With regular descent, in these our days,
The last year to the new transfers its hoards;
  New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise
Of 'elegant' et caetera, in fresh batches —
All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches.

But now I will begin my poem. 'T is
  Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new,
That from the first of Cantos up to this
  I 've not begun what we have to go through.
These first twelve books are merely flourishes,
  Preludios, trying just a string or two
Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure;
And when so, you shall have the overture.

My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin
  About what 's call'd success, or not succeeding:
Such thoughts are quite below the strain they have chosen;
  'T is a 'great moral lesson' they are reading.
I thought, at setting off, about two dozen
  Cantos would do; but at Apollo's pleading,
If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd,
I think to canter gently through a hundred.

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts,
  Yclept the Great World; for it is the least,
Although the highest: but as swords have hilts
  By which their power of mischief is increased,
When man in battle or in quarrel tilts,
  Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east,
Must still obey the high — which is their handle,
Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle.

He had many friends who had many wives, and was
  Well look'd upon by both, to that extent
Of friendship which you may accept or pass,
  It does nor good nor harm being merely meant
To keep the wheels going of the higher class,
  And draw them nightly when a ticket 's sent:
And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls,
For the first season such a life scarce palls.

A young unmarried man, with a good name
  And fortune, has an awkward part to play;
For good society is but a game,
  'The royal game of Goose,' as I may say,
Where every body has some separate aim,
  An end to answer, or a plan to lay —
The single ladies wishing to be double,
The married ones to save the virgins trouble.

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