from Canto I

101

But Inez was so anxious, and so clear
     Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion,
She had some other motive much more near
     For leaving Juan to his new temptation;
But what that motive was, I sha’n’t say here;
     Perhaps to finish Juan’s education,
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso’s eyes,
In case he thought his wife too great a prize.

102

It was upon a day, a summer’s day;—
     Summer’s indeed a very dangerous season,
And so is spring about the end of May;
     The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason;
But whatsoe’er the cause is, one may say,
     And stand convicted of more truth than treason,
That there are months which nature grows more merry in,
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine.

103

‘Twas on a summer’s day—the sixth of June:—
     I like to be particular in dates,
Not only of the age, and year, but moon;
     They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates
Change horses, making history change its tune,
     Then spur away o’er empires and o’er states,
Leaving at last not much besides chronology,
Excepting the post-obits of theology.

104

‘Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour
     Of half-past six—perhaps still nearer seven,
When Julia sate within as pretty a bower
    As e’er held houri in that heathenish heaven
Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore,
     To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,
With all the trophies of triumphant song—
He won them well, and may he wear them long!

105

She sate, but not alone; I know not well
     How this same interview had taken place,
And even if I knew, I should not tell—
     People should hold their tongues in any case;
No matter how or why the thing befell,
     But there were she and Juan, face to face—
When two such faces are so, ‘twould be wise,
But very difficult, to shut their eyes.

106

How beautiful she look’d! her conscious heart
     Glow’d in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong.
Oh Love! how perfect is thy mystic art,
     Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong,
How self-deceitful is the sagest part
     Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along—
The precipice she stood on was immense,
So was her creed in her own innocence.

107

She thought of her own strength, and Juan’s youth,
     And of the folly of all prudish fears,
Victorious virtue, and domestic truth,
     And then of Don Alfonso’s fifty years:
I wish these last had not occurr’d, in sooth,
    Because that number rarely much endears,
And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny,
Sounds ill in love, whate’er it may in money.

108

When people say, “I’ve told you fifty times,”
     They mean to scold, and very often do;
When poets say, “I’ve written fifty rhymes,”
     They make you dread that they’ll recite them too;
In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes;
     At fifty love for love is rare, ‘tis true,
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,
A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

109

Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love,
    For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore,
By all the vows below to powers above,
     She never would disgrace the ring she wore,
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove;
     And while she ponder’d this, besides much more,
One hand on Juan’s carelessly was thrown,
Quite by mistake—she thought it was her own;

110

Unconsciously she lean’d upon the other,
     Which play’d within the tangles of her hair;
And to contend with thoughts she could not smother,
     She seem’d by the distraction of her air.
‘Twas surely very wrong in Juan’s mother
     To leave together this imprudent pair,
She who for many years had watch’d her son so—
I’m very certain mine would not have done so.