from Canto XIII

81

That is, up to a certain point; which point
     Forms the most difficult in punctuation.
Appearances appear to form the joint
     On which it hinges in a higher station;
And so that no explosion cry “Aroint
     Thee, Witch!” or each Medea has her Jason;
Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci)
“Omne tulit punctum, quae miscuit utile dulci.”

82

I can’t exactly trace their rule of right,
     Which hath a little leaning to a lottery.
I’ve seen a virtuous woman put down quite
     By the mere combination of a Coterie;
Also a So-So Matron boldly fight
    Her way back to the world by dint of plottery,
And shine the very Siria of the spheres,
Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers.

83

I have seen more than I’ll say:—but we will see
    How our villeggiatura will get on.
The party might consist of thirty-three
    Of highest caste—the Brahmins of the ton.
I have named a few, not foremost in degree,
     But ta’en at hazard as the rhyme may run.
By way of sprinkling, scatter’d amongst these,
There also were some Irish absentees.

84

There was Parolles too, the legal bully,
     Who limits all his battles to the bar
And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly,
     He shows more appetite for words than war.
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly
    Come out and glimmer’d as a six-weeks’ star.
There was Lord Pyrrho too, the great freethinker;
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker.

85

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a—duke,
     “Aye, every inch a” duke; there were twelve peers
Like Charlemagne’s—and all such peers in look
     And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears
For commoners had ever them mistook.
    There were the six Miss Rawbolds—pretty dears!
All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set
Less on a convent than a coronet.

86

There were four Honourable Misters, whose
     Honour was more before their names than after;
There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse,
     Whom France and Fortune lately deign’d to waft here,
Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse;
     But the clubs found it rather serious laughter,
Because—such was his magic power to please—
The dice seem’d charm’d too with his repartees.

87

There was Dick Dubious the metaphysician,
     Who loved philosophy and a good dinner;
Angle, the soi-disant mathematician;
    Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner.
There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian,
     Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner;
And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet,
Good at all things, but better at a bet.

88

There was Jack Jargon the gigantic guardsman;
    And General Fireface, famous in the field,
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman,
     Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill’d.
There was the waggish Welch Judge, Jefferies Hardsman,
     In his grave office so completely skill’d,
That when a culprit came for condemnation,
He had his Judge’s joke for consolation.

89

Good company’s a chess-board—there are kings,
     Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world’s a game;
Save that the puppets pull at their own strings;
     Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same.
My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings,
    Not stings, and flits through ether without aim,
Alighting rarely:—were she but a hornet,
Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.

90

I had forgotten—but must not forget—
     An Orator, the latest of the session,
Who had deliver’d well a very set
    Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression
Upon debate: the papers echoed yet
     With this debt, which made a strong impression,
And rank’d with what is every day display’d—
“The best first speech that ever yet was made.”