Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XV

But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons,
  Who favour, malgre Malthus, generation —
Professors of that genial art, and patrons
  Of all the modest part of propagation;
Which after all at such a desperate rate runs,
  That half its produce tends to emigration,
That sad result of passions and potatoes —
Two weeds which pose our economic Catos.

Had Adeline read Malthus? I can't tell;
  I wish she had: his book 's the eleventh commandment,
Which says, 'Thou shalt not marry,' unless well:
  This he (as far as I can understand) meant.
'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell
  Nor canvass what so 'eminent a hand' meant;
But certes it conducts to lives ascetic,
Or turning marriage into arithmetic.

But Adeline, who probably presumed
  That Juan had enough of maintenance,
Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doom'd —
  As on the whole it is an even chance
That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd,
  May retrograde a little in the dance
Of marriage (which might form a painter's fame,
Like Holbein's 'Dance of Death' — but 't is the same); —

But Adeline determined Juan's wedding
  In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman:
But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading,
  Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Knowman.
And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding.
  She deem'd his merits something more than common:
All these were unobjectionable matches,
And might go on, if well wound up, like watches.

There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea,
  That usual paragon, an only daughter,
Who seem'd the cream of equanimity
  Till skimm'd — and then there was some milk and water,
With a slight shade of blue too, it might be,
  Beneath the surface; but what did it matter?
Love 's riotous, but marriage should have quiet,
And being consumptive, live on a milk diet.

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring,
  A dashing demoiselle of good estate,
Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or blue string;
  But whether English dukes grew rare of late,
Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string,
  By which such sirens can attract our great,
She took up with some foreign younger brother,
A Russ or Turk — the one 's as good as t' other.

And then there was — but why should I go on,
  Unless the ladies should go off? — there was
Indeed a certain fair and fairy one,
  Of the best class, and better than her class, —
Aurora Raby, a young star who shone
  O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass,
A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded;

Rich, noble, but an orphan; left an only
  Child to the care of guardians good and kind;
But still her aspect had an air so lonely!
  Blood is not water; and where shall we find
Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie
  By death, when we are left, alas! behind,
To feel, in friendless palaces, a home
Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb?

Early in years, and yet more infantine
  In figure, she had something of sublime
In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine.
  All youth — but with an aspect beyond time;
Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline;
  Mournful — but mournful of another's crime,
She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door.
And grieved for those who could return no more.

She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere,
  As far as her own gentle heart allow'd,
And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear
  Perhaps because 't was fallen: her sires were proud
Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear
  Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd
To novel power; and as she was the last,
She held their old faith and old feelings fast.

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew,
  As seeking not to know it; silent, lone,
As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew,
  And kept her heart serene within its zone.
There was awe in the homage which she drew;
  Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne
Apart from the surrounding world, and strong
In its own strength — most strange in one so young!

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