from Canto XIV

11

But “why then publish?”—There are no rewards
     Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary.
I ask in turn,—why do you play at cards?
     Why drink? Why read?—To make some hour less dreary.
It occupies me to turn back regards
     On what I’ve seen or ponder’d, sad or cheery;
And what I write I cast upon the stream,
To swim or sink—I have had at least my dream.

12

I think that were I certain of success,
     I hardly could compose another line:
So long I’ve battled either more or less,
     That no defeat can drive me from the Nine.
This feeling ‘tis not easy to express,
     And yet ‘tis not affected, I opine.
In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing—
The one is winning, and the other losing.

13

Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction:
     She gathers a repertory of facts,
Of course with some reserve and slight restriction,
     But mostly sings of human things and acts—
And that’s one cause she meets with contradiction;
     For too much truth, at first sight, ne’er attracts;
And were her object only what’s call’d glory,
With more ease too she’d tell a different story.

14

Love, war, a tempest—surely there’s variety;
    Also a seasoning slight of lucubration;
A bird’s-eye view too of that wild, Society;
     A slight glance thrown on men of every station.
If you have nought else, here’s at least satiety
     Both in performance and in preparation;
And though these lines should only line portmanteaus,
Trade will be all the better for these Cantos.

15

The portion of this world which I at present
     Have taken up to fill the following sermon,
Is one of which there’s no description recent:
     The reason why, is easy to determine:
Although it seems both prominent and pleasant,
     There is a sameness in its gems and ermine,
A dull and family likeness through all ages,
Of no great promise for poetic pages.

16

With much to excite, there’s little to exalt;
     Nothing that speaks to all men and all times;
A sort of varnish over every fault;
     A kind of common-place, even in their crimes:
Factitious passions, wit without much salt,
    A want of that true nature which sublimes
Whate’er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony
Of character, in those at least who have got any.

17

Sometimes indeed, like soldiers off parade,
     They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill;
But then the roll-call draws them back afraid,
     And they must be or seem what they were: still
Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade;
     But when of the first sight you have had your fill,
It palls—at least it did so upon me,
This Paradise of Pleasure and Ennui.

18

When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming,
     Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, something more;
With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming;
     Seen beauties brought to market by the score;
Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming;
     There’s little left but to be bored or bore.
Witness those “ci-devant jeunes hommes” who stem
The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them.

19

‘Tis said—indeed a general complaint—
     That no one has succeeded in describing
The Monde, exactly as they ought to paint.
    Some say, that Authors only snatch, by bribing
The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint,
    To furnish matter for their moral gibing;
And that their books have but one style in common—
My lady’s prattle, filter’d through her woman.

20

But this can’t well be true, just now; for writers
     Are grown of the Beau Monde a part potential:
I’ve seen them balance even the scale with fighters,
     Especially when young, for that’s essential.
Why do their sketches fail them as inditers
     Of what they deem themselves most consequential—
The real portrait of the highest tribe?
‘Tis that, in fact, there’s little to describe.