Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XIII

If all these seem a heterogeneous mas
  To be assembled at a country seat,
Yet think, a specimen of every class
  Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete.
The days of Comedy are gone, alas!
  When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's bete:
Society is smooth'd to that excess,
That manners hardly differ more than dress.

Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground —
  Ridiculous enough, but also dull;
Professions, too, are no more to be found
  Professional; and there is nought to cull
Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound,
  They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull.
Society is now one polish'd horde,
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning
  The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth;
And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning,
  You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth.
Farther I 'd quote, but Scripture intervening
  Forbids. Its great impression in my youth
Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries,
'That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.'

But what we can we glean in this vile age
  Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist.
I must not quite omit the talking sage,
  Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist,
Who, in his common-place book, had a page
  Prepared each morn for evenings. 'List, oh, list!'-
'Alas, poor ghost!' — What unexpected woes
Await those who have studied their bon-mots!

Firstly, they must allure the conversation
  By many windings to their clever clinch;
And secondly, must let slip no occasion,
  Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch,
But take an ell — and make a great sensation,
  If possible; and thirdly, never flinch
When some smart talker puts them to the test,
But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best.

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts;
  The party we have touch'd on were the guests:
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts
  To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts.
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts,
  Albeit all human history attests
That happiness for man — the hungry sinner!-
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

Witness the lands which 'flow'd with milk and honey,'
  Held out unto the hungry Israelites;
To this we have added since, the love of money,
  The only sort of pleasure which requites.
Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny;
  We tire of mistresses and parasites;
But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah! who would lose thee?
When we no more can use, or even abuse thee!

The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot,
  Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport —
The first thing boys like after play and fruit;
  The middle-aged to make the day more short;
For ennui is a growth of English root,
  Though nameless in our language: — we retort
The fact for words, and let the French translate
That awful yawn which sleep can not abate.

The elderly walk'd through the library,
  And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures,
Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously,
  And made upon the hot-house several strictures,
Or rode a nag which trotted not too high,
  Or on the morning papers read their lectures,
Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix,
Longing at sixty for the hour of six.

But none were 'gene:' the great hour of union
  Was rung by dinner's knell; till then all were
Masters of their own time — or in communion,
  Or solitary, as they chose to bear
The hours, which how to pass is but to few known.
  Each rose up at his own, and had to spare
What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast
When, where, and how he chose for that repast.

The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale —
  Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode,
Or walk'd; if foul, they read, or told a tale,
  Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad;
Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail,
  And settled bonnets by the newest code,
Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter,
To make each correspondent a new debtor.

For some had absent lovers, all had friends.
  The earth has nothing like a she epistle,
And hardly heaven — because it never ends.
  I love the mystery of a female missal,
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends,
  But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle,
When he allured poor Dolon: — you had better
Take care what you reply to such a letter.

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