Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XIV

Eureka! I have found it! What I mean
  To say is, not that love is idleness,
But that in love such idleness has been
  An accessory, as I have cause to guess.
Hard labour's an indifferent go-between;
  Your men of business are not apt to express
Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo,
Convey'd Medea as her supercargo.

'Beatus ille procul!' from 'negotiis,'
  Saith Horace; the great little poet 's wrong;
His other maxim, 'Noscitur a sociis,'
  Is much more to the purpose of his song;
Though even that were sometimes too ferocious,
  Unless good company be kept too long;
But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station,
Thrice happy they who have an occupation!

Adam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing,
  Eve made up millinery with fig leaves —
The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing,
  As far as I know, that the church receives:
And since that time it need not cost much showing,
  That many of the ills o'er which man grieves,
And still more women, spring from not employing
Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying.

And hence high life is oft a dreary void,
  A rack of pleasures, where we must invent
A something wherewithal to be annoy'd.
  Bards may sing what they please about Content;
Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd;
  And hence arise the woes of sentiment,
Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances
Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances.

I do declare, upon an affidavit,
  Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen;
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it,
  Would some believe that such a tale had been:
But such intent I never had, nor have it;
  Some truths are better kept behind a screen,
Especially when they would look like lies;
I therefore deal in generalities.

'An oyster may be cross'd in love,' — and why?
  Because he mopeth idly in his shell,
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh,
  Much as a monk may do within his cell:
And a-propos of monks, their piety
  With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell;
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed.

O Wilberforce! thou man of black renown,
  Whose merit none enough can sing or say,
Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down,
  Thou moral Washington of Africa!
But there 's another little thing, I own,
  Which you should perpetrate some summer's day,
And set the other halt of earth to rights;
You have freed the blacks — now pray shut up the whites.

Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander!
  Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal;
Teach them that 'sauce for goose is sauce for gander,'
  And ask them how they like to be in thrall?
Shut up each high heroic salamander,
  Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small);
Shut up — no, not the King, but the Pavilion,
Or else 't will cost us all another million.

Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out;
  And you will be perhaps surprised to find
All things pursue exactly the same route,
  As now with those of soi-disant sound mind.
This I could prove beyond a single doubt,
  Were there a jot of sense among mankind;
But till that point d'appui is found, alas!
Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was.

Our gentle Adeline had one defect —
  Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion;
Her conduct had been perfectly correct,
  As she had seen nought claiming its expansion.
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd,
  Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one;
But when the latter works its own undoing,
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin.

She loved her lord, or thought so; but that love
  Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil,
The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move
  Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil.
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove,
  No bickerings, no connubial turmoil:
Their union was a model to behold,
Serene and noble, — conjugal, but cold.

There was no great disparity of years,
  Though much in temper; but they never clash'd:
They moved like stars united in their spheres,
  Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd,
Where mingled and yet separate appears
  The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd
Through the serene and placid glassy deep,
Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.

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