Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XIII

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully,
  Who limits all his battles to the bar
And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly,
  He shows more appetite for words than war.
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly
  Come out and glimmer'd as a six weeks' star.
There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker;
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker.

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — duke,
  'Ay, every inch a' duke; there were twelve peers
Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in look
  And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears
For commoners had ever them mistook.
  There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty dears!
All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set
Less on a convent than a coronet.

There were four Honourable Misters, whose
  Honour was more before their names than after;
There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse,
  Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft here,
Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse;
  But the clubs found it rather serious laughter,
Because — such was his magic power to please —
The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees.

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician,
  Who loved philosophy and a good dinner;
Angle, the soi-disant mathematician;
  Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner.
There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian,
  Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner;
And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet,
Good at all things, but better at a bet.

There was jack jargon, the gigantic guardsman;
  And General Fireface, famous in the field,
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman,
  Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd.
There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hardsman,
  In his grave office so completely skill'd,
That when a culprit came far condemnation,
He had his judge's joke for consolation.

Good company 's a chess-board — there are kings,
  Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world 's a game;
Save that the puppets pull at their own strings,
  Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same.
My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings,
  Not stings, and flits through ether without aim,
Alighting rarely: — were she but a hornet,
Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.

I had forgotten — but must not forget —
  An orator, the latest of the session,
Who had deliver'd well a very set
  Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression
Upon debate: the papers echoed yet
  With his debut, which made a strong impression,
And rank'd with what is every day display'd —
'The best first speech that ever yet was made.'

Proud of his 'Hear hims!' proud, too, of his vote
  And lost virginity of oratory,
Proud of his learning (just enough to quote),
  He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory:
With memory excellent to get by rote,
  With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story,
Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery,
'His country's pride,' he came down to the country.

There also were two wits by acclamation,
  Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed,
Both lawyers and both men of education;
  But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed:
Longbow was rich in an imagination
  As beautiful and bounding as a steed,
But sometimes stumbling over a potato, —
While Strongbow's best things might have come from Cato.

Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord;
  But Longbow wild as an AEolian harp,
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord,
  And make a music, whether flat or sharp.
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word:
  At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp:
Both wits — one born so, and the other bred —
This by his heart, his rival by his head.

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