When your affairs come round, one way or

t'other,

Go to the coffeehouse, and take another.*

XLIX.

But this is not my maxim: had it been,

LIV.

But Adeline was far from that ripe age,
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best.
"Twas rather her experience made her sage;

For she had seen the world, and stood its test,

Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet I As I have said in-I forget what page:

care not

I would not be a tortoise in his screen

Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather
wear not.

'Tis better, on the whole, to have felt and seen
That which humanity may bear, or bear not:
'Twill teach discernment to the sensitive,
And not to pour their ocean in a sieve.

L.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so,'
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past,
Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do,
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last,
And solace your slight lapse 'gainst bonos mores,
With a long memorandum of old stories.

LI.

The Lady Adeline's serene severity

Was not confined to feeling for her friend, Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, Unless her habits should begin to mend ; But Juan also shared in her austerity,

My Muse despises reference, as you've guess'd By this time;-but strike six from seven-andtwenty,

And

you will find her sum of years in plenty.

LV.

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."

LVI.

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,

But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd: To bear a son and heir-and one miscarriage.

His inexperience moved her gentle ruth,
And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth.

Oh 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.

*In Swift's or Horace Walpole's letters, I think it is mentioned that somebody, regretting the loss of a friend, was answered by an universal Pylades; "When I lose one, I go to the St James's Coffeehouse, and take another."

I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same kind. Sir W. D. was a great gamester. Coming in one day to the club of which he was a member, he was observed to look melancholy "What is the matter, Sir William?' cried Hare, of facetious memory. "Ah," replied Sir W., "I have just lost poor Lady D.", """Lost! What at-Quinze or Hazard? was the consolatory rejoinder of the querist.

LVII.

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?

LVIII.

I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle,
Which with the landlord makes too long a
Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle,
stand,
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.'

LIX.

'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things,

They're 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.

LX.

With the kind view of saving an éclat,

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)-

CANTO THE FIFTEENTH.
1824.

Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor Beauty! She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. Wherewith we break our bubbles on the What though she now and then may slip from

Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or Because she was not apt, like some of us,