from Canto I

111

The hand which still held Juan’s, by degrees
     Gently, but palpably confirm’d its grasp,
As if it said “detain me, if you please”;
     Yet there’s no doubt she only meant to clasp
His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze;
     She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp,
Had she imagined such a thing could rouse
A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse.

112

I cannot know what Juan thought of this,
     But what he did, is much what you would do;
His young lip thank’d it with a grateful kiss,
     And then, abash’d at its own joy, withdrew
In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,
     Love is so very timid when ‘tis new:
She blush’d, and frown’d not, but she strove to speak,
And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.

113

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon:
     The devil’s in the moon for mischief; they
Who call’d her chaste, methinks, began too soon
     Their nomenclature; there is not a day,
The longest, not the twenty-first of June,
     Sees half the business in a wicked way
On which three single hours of moonshine smile—
And then she looks so modest all the while.

114

There is a dangerous silence in that hour,
     A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul
To open all itself, without the power
     Of calling wholly back its self-control;
The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower,
     Sheds beauty and deep softness o’er the whole,
Breathes also to the heart, and o’er it throws
A loving languor, which is not repose.

115

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced
     And half retiring from the glowing arm,
Which trembled like the bosom where ‘twas placed;
     Yet still she must have thought there was no harm,
Or else ‘twere easy to withdraw her waist;
     But then the situation had its charm,
And then—God knows what next—I can’t go on;
I’m almost sorry that I e’er begun.

116

Oh Plato! Plato! you have paved the way,
     With your confounded fantasies, to more
Immoral conduct by the fancied sway
    Your system feigns o’er the controlless core
Of human hearts, than all the long array
    Of poets and romancers:—You’re a bore,
A charlatan, a coxcomb—and have been,
At best, no better than a go-between.

117

And Julia’s voice was lost, except in sighs,
     Until too late for useful conversation;
The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes,
     I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion,
But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?
     Not that remorse did not oppose temptation,
A little still she strove, and much repented,
And whispering “I will ne’er consent”—consented.

118

‘Tis said that Xerxes offer’d a reward
     To those who could invent him a new pleasure;
Methinks, the requisition’s rather hard,
     And must have cost his majesty a treasure:
For my part, I’m a moderate-minded bard,
     Fond of a little love (which I call leisure);
I care not for new pleasures, as the old
Are quite enough for me, so they but hold.

119

Oh Pleasure! you’re indeed a pleasant thing,
     Although one must be damn’d for you, no doubt
I make a resolution every spring
     Of reformation, ere the year run out,
But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing,
     Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout:
I’m very sorry, very much ashamed,
And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim’d.

120

Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take—
    Start not! still chaster reader—she’ll be nice hence-
Forward, and there is no great cause to quake;
     This liberty is a poetic licence,
Which some irregularity may make
     In the design, and as I have a high sense
Of Aristotle and the Rules, ‘tis fit
To beg his pardon when I err a bit.