Selected Works of George Gordon, Lord Byron

          LXXVIII
Aurora sat with that indifference
  Which piques a preux chevalier--as it ought:
Of all offences that 's the worst offence,
  Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought.
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence,
  Was not exactly pleased to be so caught;
Like a good ship entangled among ice,
And after so much excellent advice.

     LXXIX
To his gay nothings, nothing was replied,
  Or something which was nothing, as urbanity
Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside,
  Nor even smiled enough for any vanity.
The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride?
  Or modesty, or absence, or inanity?
Heaven knows? But Adeline's malicious eyes
Sparkled with her successful prophecies,

     LXXX
And look'd as much as if to say, 'I said it;'
  A kind of triumph I 'll not recommend,
Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it,
  Both in the case of lover and of friend,
Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit,
  To bring what was a jest to a serious end:
For all men prophesy what is or was,
And hate those who won't let them come to pass.

     LXXXI
Juan was drawn thus into some attentions,
  Slight but select, and just enough to express,
To females of perspicuous comprehensions,
  That he would rather make them more than less.
Aurora at the last (so history mentions,
  Though probably much less a fact than guess)
So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison,
As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.

     LXXXII
From answering she began to question; this
  With her was rare: and Adeline, who as yet
Thought her predictions went not much amiss,
  Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette--
So very difficult, they say, it is
  To keep extremes from meeting, when once set
In motion; but she here too much refined--
Aurora's spirit was not of that kind.

     LXXXIII
But Juan had a sort of winning way,
  A proud humility, if such there be,
Which show'd such deference to what females say,
  As if each charming word were a decree.
His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay,
  And taught him when to be reserved or free:
He had the art of drawing people out,
Without their seeing what he was about.

     LXXXIV
Aurora, who in her indifference
  Confounded him in common with the crowd
Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense
  Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud--
Commenced (from such slight things will great commence)
  To feel that flattery which attracts the proud
Rather by deference than compliment,
And wins even by a delicate dissent.

     LXXXV
And then he had good looks;--that point was carried
  Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve
To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married--
  A case which to the juries we may leave,
Since with digressions we too long have tarried.
  Now though we know of old that looks deceive,
And always have done, somehow these good looks
Make more impression than the best of books.

     LXXXVI
Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces,
  Was very young, although so very sage,
Admiring more Minerva than the Graces,
  Especially upon a printed page.
But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces,
  Has not the natural stays of strict old age;
And Socrates, that model of all duty,
Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty.

     LXXXVII
And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic,
  But innocently so, as Socrates;
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic
  At seventy years had phantasies like these,
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic
  Has shown, I know not why they should displease
In virgins--always in a modest way,
Observe; for that with me 's a 'sine qua.'

     LXXXVIII
Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke
  (See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd
Opinions two, which at first sight may look
  Twin opposites, the second is the best.
Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook,
  Or none at all--which seems a sorry jest:
But if a writer should be quite consistent,
How could he possibly show things existent?

     LXXXIX
If people contradict themselves, can
  Help contradicting them, and every body,
Even my veracious self?--But that 's a lie:
  I never did so, never will--how should I?
He who doubts all things nothing can deny:
  Truth's fountains may be clear--her streams are muddy,
And cut through such canals of contradiction,
That she must often navigate o'er fiction.

     XC
Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable,
  Are false, but may he render'd also true,
By those who sow them in a land that 's arable.
  'T is wonderful what fable will not do!
'T is said it makes reality more bearable:
  But what 's reality? Who has its clue?
Philosophy? No: she too much rejects.
Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?

     XCI
Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty dear;
  Perhaps it may turn out that all were right.
God help us! Since we have need on our career
  To keep our holy beacons always bright,
'T is time that some new prophet should appear,
  Or old indulge man with a second sight.
Opinions wear out in some thousand years,
Without a small refreshment from the spheres.

     XCII
But here again, why will I thus entangle
  Myself with metaphysics? None can hate
So much as I do any kind of wrangle;
  And yet, such is my folly, or my fate,
I always knock my head against some angle
  About the present, past, or future state.
Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian,
For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian.

     XCIII
But though I am a temperate theologian,
  And also meek as a metaphysician,
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan,
  As Eldon on a lunatic commission--
In politics my duty is to show John
  Bull something of the lower world's condition.
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla,
To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law.

     XCIV
But politics, and policy, and piety,
  Are topics which I sometimes introduce,
Not only for the sake of their variety,
  But as subservient to a moral use;
Because my business is to dress society,
  And stuff with sage that very verdant goose.
And now, that we may furnish with some matter all
Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural.

     XCV
And now I will give up all argument;
  And positively henceforth no temptation
Shall 'fool me to the top up of my bent:'--
  Yes, I' ll begin a thorough reformation.
Indeed, I never knew what people meant
  By deeming that my Muse's conversation
Was dangerous;--I think she is as harmless
As some who labour more and yet may charm less.

     XCVII
Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost?
  No; but you have heard--I understand--be dumb!
And don't regret the time you may have lost,
  For you have got that pleasure still to come:
And do not think I mean to sneer at most
  Of these things, or by ridicule benumb
That source of the sublime and the mysterious:--
For certain reasons my belief is serious.

     XCVIII
Serious? You laugh;--you may: that will I not;
  My smiles must be sincere or not at all.
I say I do believe a haunted spot
  Exists--and where? That shall I not recall,
Because I 'd rather it should be forgot,
  'Shadows the soul of Richard' may appal.
In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very
Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.

     XCIX
The night (I sing by night--sometimes an owl,
  And now and then a nightingale) is dim,
And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl
  Rattles around me her discordant hymn:
Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl--
  I wish to heaven they would not look so grim;
The dying embers dwindle in the grate--
I think too that I have sate up too late:

     C
And therefore, though 't is by no means my way
  To rhyme at noon--when I have other things
To think of, if I ever think--I say
  I feel some chilly midnight shudderings,
And prudently postpone, until mid-day,
  Treating a topic which, alas! but brings
Shadows;--but you must be in my condition
Before you learn to call this superstition.

     CI
Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
  'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
How little do we know that which we are!
  How less what we may be! The eternal surge
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar
  Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,
Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves
Of empires heave but like some passing waves.