Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XIV

This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty —
  Say seven-and-twenty; for I never knew
The strictest in chronology and virtue
  Advance beyond, while they could pass for new.
O Time! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty
  With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew.
Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower,
If but to keep thy credit as a mower.

But Adeline was far from that ripe age,
  Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best:
'T was rather her experience made her sage,
  For she had seen the world and stood its test,
As I have said in — I forget what page;
  My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd
By this time; — but strike six from seven-and-twenty,
And you will find her sum of years in plenty.

At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted,
  She put all coronets into commotion:
At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted
  With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean:
At eighteen, though below her feet still panted
  A hecatomb of suitors with devotion,
She had consented to create again
That Adam, call'd 'The happiest of men.'

Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters,
  Admired, adored; but also so correct,
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters,
  Without the apparel of being circumspect:
They could not even glean the slightest splinters
  From off the marble, which had no defect.
She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage
To bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage.

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her,
  Those little glitterers of the London night;
But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her —
  She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight.
Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder;
  But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right;
And whether coldness, pride, or virtue dignify
A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify?

I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle
  Which with the landlord makes too long a stand,
Leaving all-claretless the unmoisten'd throttle,
  Especially with politics on hand;
I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle,
  Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand;
I hate it, as I hate an argument,
A laureate's ode, or servile peer's 'content.'

'T is sad to hack into the roots of things,
  They are so much intertwisted with the earth;
So that the branch a goodly verdure flings,
  I reck not if an acorn gave it birth.
To trace all actions to their secret springs
  Would make indeed some melancholy mirth;
But this is not at present my concern,
And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.

With the kind view of saving an eclat,
  Both to the duchess and diplomatist,
The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw
  That Juan was unlikely to resist
(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas
  In England ranks quite on a different list
From those of other lands unblest with juries,
Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is); —

The Lady Adeline resolved to take
  Such measures as she thought might best impede
The farther progress of this sad mistake.
  She thought with some simplicity indeed;
But innocence is bold even at the stake,
  And simple in the world, and doth not need
Nor use those palisades by dames erected,
Whose virtue lies in never being detected.

It was not that she fear'd the very worst:
  His Grace was an enduring, married man,
And was not likely all at once to burst
  Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan
Of Doctors' Commons: but she dreaded first
  The magic of her Grace's talisman,
And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret)
With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante,
  And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere;
One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt
  A lover with caprices soft and dear,
That like to make a quarrel, when they can't
  Find one, each day of the delightful year;
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,
And — what is worst of all — won't let you go:

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