from Canto XIV

41

No marvel then he was a favourite;
     A full-grown Cupid, very much admired;
A little spoilt, but by no means so quite;
     At least he kept his vanity retired.
Such was his tact, he could alike delight
     The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired.
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved “tracasserie,”
Began to treat him with some small “agaerie.”

42

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde,
     Desirable, distinguish’d, celebrated
For several winters in the grand, grand Monde.
     I’d rather not say what might be related
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;
     Besides there might be falsehood in what’s stated:
Her late performance had been a dead set
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

43

This noble personage began to look
     A little black upon this new flirtation;
But such small licences must lovers brook,
     Mere freedoms of the female corporation.
Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke!
     ‘Twill but precipitate a situation
Extremely disagreeable, but common
To calculators when they count on woman.

44

The circle smil’d, then whisper’d, and then sneer’d;
     The misses bridled, and the matrons frown’d;
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear’d;
     Some would not deem such women could be found;
Some ne’er believed one half of what they heard;
     Some look’d perplex’d, and others look’d profound;
And several pitied with sincere regret
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

45

But what is odd, none ever named the Duke,
     Who, one might think, was something in the affair.
True, he was absent, and ‘twas rumour’d, took
     But small concern about the when, or where,
Or what his consort did: if he could brook
    Her gaieties, none had a right to stare:
Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt,
Which never meets, and therefore can’t fall out.

46

But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line!
     Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she,
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline,
     Began to think the Duchess’ conduct free;
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line,
     And waxing chiller in her courtesy,
Looked grave and pale to see her friend’s fragility,
For which most friends reserve their sensibility.

47

There’s nought in this bad world like sympathy:
     ‘Tis so becoming to the soul and face;
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,
     And robes sweet Friendship in a Brussels lace.
Without a friend, what were humanity,
     To hunt our errors up with a good grace?
Consoling us with—”Would you had thought twice!
Ah! if you had but follow’d my advice!”

48

Oh, Job! you had two friends: one’s quite enough,
     Especially when we are ill at ease;
They are but bad pilots when the weather’s rough,
     Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,
     As they will do like leaves at the first breeze:
When your affairs come round, one way or t’other,
Go to the coffee-house, and take another.

49

But this is not my maxim: had it been,
     Some heart-aches had been spared me; yet I 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.

50

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.