Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XIII

Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice; —
  Save in the clubs no man of honour plays; —
Boats when 't was water, skating when 't was ice,
  And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days:
And angling, too, that solitary vice,
  Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says;
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

With evening came the banquet and the wine;
  The conversazione; the duet,
Attuned by voices more or less divine
  (My heart or head aches with the memory yet).
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine;
  But the two youngest loved more to be set
Down to the harp — because to music's charms
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days,
  For then the gentlemen were rather tired)
Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze;
  Then there was small-talk ready when required;
Flirtation — but decorous; the mere praise
  Of charms that should or should not be admired.
The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again,
And then retreated soberly — at ten.

The politicians, in a nook apart,
  Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres;
The wits watch'd every loophole for their art,
  To introduce a bon-mot head and ears;
Small is the rest of those who would be smart,
  A moment's good thing may have cost them years
Before they find an hour to introduce it;
And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it.

But all was gentle and aristocratic
  In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold,
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic.
  There now are no Squire Westerns as of old;
And our Sophias are not so emphatic,
  But fair as then, or fairer to behold.
We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones,
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.

They separated at an early hour;
  That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon:
But in the country ladies seek their bower
  A little earlier than the waning moon.
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower —
  May the rose call back its true colour soon!
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters,
And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters.

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