Selected Works of George Gordon, Lord Byron

     I
OH ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
  Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
  It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
  In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that 's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.

     II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
  In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
  At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
  But then exceptions always prove its worth--
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

     III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
  If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
  A--never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that 's quite natural,
  Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife--a time, and opportunity.

     IV
Well--well, the world must turn upon its axis,
  And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
  And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
  The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,--perhaps a name.

     V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz--
  A pretty town, I recollect it well--
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
  (Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls--I mean, such graceful ladies,
  Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it--I never saw the like:

     VI
An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb
  New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle,
No--none of these will do;--and then their garb!
  Their veil and petticoat--Alas! to dwell
Upon such things would very near absorb
  A canto--then their feet and ankles,--well,
Thank Heaven I 've got no metaphor quite ready
(And so, my sober Muse--come, let 's be steady--

     VII
Chaste Muse!--well, if you must, you must)--the veil
  Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand,
While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale,
  Flashes into the heart:--All sunny land
Of love! when I forget you, may I fail
  To--say my prayers--but never was there plann'd
A dress through which the eyes give such a volley,
Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.

     VIII
But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent
  Her son to Cadiz only to embark;
To stay there had not answer'd her intent,
  But why?--we leave the reader in the dark--
'T was for a voyage that the young man was meant,
  As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark,
To wean him from the wickedness of earth,
And send him like a dove of promise forth.

     IX
Don Juan bade his valet pack his things
  According to direction, then received
A lecture and some money: for four springs
  He was to travel; and though Inez grieved
(As every kind of parting has its stings),
  She hoped he would improve--perhaps believed:
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it)
Of good advice--and two or three of credit.

     X
In the mean time, to pass her hours away,
  Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school
For naughty children, who would rather play
  (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool;
Infants of three years old were taught that day,
  Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool:
The great success of Juan's education,
Spurr'd her to teach another generation.

     XI
Juan embark'd--the ship got under way,
  The wind was fair, the water passing rough:
A devil of a sea rolls in that bay,
  As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough;
And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray
  Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough:
And there he stood to take, and take again,
His first--perhaps his last--farewell of Spain.

     XII
I can't but say it is an awkward sight
  To see one's native land receding through
The growing waters; it unmans one quite,
  Especially when life is rather new:
I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white,
  But almost every other country 's blue,
When gazing on them, mystified by distance,
We enter on our nautical existence.

     XIII
So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck:
  The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore,
And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck,
  From which away so fair and fast they bore.
The best of remedies is a beef-steak
  Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before
You sneer, and I assure you this is true,
For I have found it answer--so may you.

     XIV
Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern,
  Beheld his native Spain receding far:
First partings form a lesson hard to learn,
  Even nations feel this when they go to war;
There is a sort of unexprest concern,
  A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar:
At leaving even the most unpleasant people
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple.

     XV
But Juan had got many things to leave,
  His mother, and a mistress, and no wife,
So that he had much better cause to grieve
  Than many persons more advanced in life;
And if we now and then a sigh must heave
  At quitting even those we quit in strife,
No doubt we weep for those the heart endears--
That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.

     XVI
So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews
  By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion:
I 'd weep,--but mine is not a weeping Muse,
  And such light griefs are not a thing to die on;
Young men should travel, if but to amuse
  Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on
Behind their carriages their new portmanteau,
Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.

     XVII
And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and thought,
  While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea,
'Sweets to the sweet' (I like so much to quote;
  You must excuse this extract, 't is where she,
The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought
  Flowers to the grave); and, sobbing often, he
Reflected on his present situation,
And seriously resolved on reformation.

     XVIII
'Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!' he cried,
  'Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died,
  Of its own thirst to see again thy shore:
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide!
  Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er,
Farewell, too, dearest Julia!--(Here he drew
Her letter out again, and read it through.)

     XIX
'And, oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear--
  But that 's impossible, and cannot be--
Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air,
  Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea,
Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair!
  Or think of any thing excepting thee;
A mind diseased no remedy can physic
(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick).

     XX
'Sooner shall heaven kiss earth (here he fell sicker),
  Oh, Julia! what is every other wo?
(For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor;
  Pedro, Battista, help me down below.)
Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)--
  Oh, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so)--
Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!'
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)

     XXI
He felt that chilling heaviness of heart,
  Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends,
Beyond the best apothecary's art,
  The loss of love, the treachery of friends,
Or death of those we dote on, when a part
  Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends:
No doubt he would have been much more pathetic,
But the sea acted as a strong emetic. I

     XXII
Love 's a capricious power: I 've known it hold
  Out through a fever caused by its own heat,
But be much puzzled by a cough and cold,
  And find a quincy very hard to treat;
Against all noble maladies he 's bold,
  But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet,
Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh,
Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.

     XXIII
But worst of all is nausea, or a pain
  About the lower region of the bowels;
Love, who heroically breathes a vein,
  Shrinks from the application of hot towels,
And purgatives are dangerous to his reign,
  Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else
Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar,
Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before?

     XXIV
The ship, call'd the most holy 'Trinidada,'
  Was steering duly for the port Leghorn;
For there the Spanish family Moncada
  Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born:
They were relations, and for them he had a
  Letter of introduction, which the morn
Of his departure had been sent him by
His Spanish friends for those in Italy.

     XXV
His suite consisted of three servants and
  A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo,
Who several languages did understand,
  But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow,
And rocking in his hammock, long'd for land,
  His headache being increased by every billow;
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made
His berth a little damp, and him afraid.

     XXVI
'T was not without some reason, for the wind
  Increased at night, until it blew a gale;
And though 't was not much to a naval mind,
  Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale,
For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:
  At sunset they began to take in sail,
For the sky show'd it would come on to blow,
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.

     XXVII
At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift
  Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea,
Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift,
  Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the
Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift
  Herself from out her present jeopardy,
The rudder tore away: 't was time to sound
The pumps, and there were four feet water found.

     XXVIII
One gang of people instantly was put
  Upon the pumps and the remainder set
To get up part of the cargo, and what not;
  But they could not come at the leak as yet;
At last they did get at it really, but
  Still their salvation was an even bet:
The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling,
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin,

     XXIX
Into the opening; but all such ingredients
  Would have been vain, and they must have gone down,
Despite of all their efforts and expedients,
  But for the pumps: I 'm glad to make them known
To all the brother tars who may have need hence,
  For fifty tons of water were upthrown
By them per hour, and they had all been undone,
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.

     XXX
As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate,
  And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce,
And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet
  Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use.
The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late
  A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose,
A gust--which all descriptive power transcends--
Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.

     XXXI
There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset;
  The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks,
And made a scene men do not soon forget;
  For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks,
Or any other thing that brings regret,
  Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks:
Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers,
And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.

     XXXII
Immediately the masts were cut away,
  Both main and mizen; first the mizen went,
The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay
  Like a mere log, and baffled our intent.
Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they
  Eased her at last (although we never meant
To part with all till every hope was blighted),
And then with violence the old ship righted.

     XXXIII
It may be easily supposed, while this
  Was going on, some people were unquiet,
That passengers would find it much amiss
  To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet;
That even the able seaman, deeming his
  Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot,
As upon such occasions tars will ask
For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.

     XXXIV
There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms
  As rum and true religion: thus it was,
Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms,
  The high wind made the treble, and as bas
The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualms
  Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws:
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion,
Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean.

     XXXV
Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for
  Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years,
Got to the spirit-room, and stood before
  It with a pair of pistols; and their fears,
As if Death were more dreadful by his door
  Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears,
Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk,
Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.

     XXXVI
'Give us more grog,' they cried, 'for it will be
  All one an hour hence.' Juan answer'd, 'No!
'T is true that death awaits both you and me,
  But let us die like men, not sink below
Like brutes;'--and thus his dangerous post kept he,
  And none liked to anticipate the blow;
And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor,
Was for some rum a disappointed suitor.

     XXXVII
The good old gentleman was quite aghast,
  And made a loud and pious lamentation;
Repented all his sins, and made a last
  Irrevocable vow of reformation;
Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past)
  To quit his academic occupation,
In cloisters of the classic Salamanca,
To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca.

     XXXVIII
But now there came a flash of hope once more;
  Day broke, and the wind lull'd: the masts were gone,
The leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore,
  The vessel swam, yet still she held her own.
They tried the pumps again, and though before
  Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown,
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale--
The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail.

     XXXIX
Under the vessel's keel the sail was past,
  And for the moment it had some effect;
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast,
  Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect?
But still 't is best to struggle to the last,
  'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd:
And though 't is true that man can only die once,
'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.

     XL
There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence,
  Without their will, they carried them away;
For they were forced with steering to dispense,
  And never had as yet a quiet day
On which they might repose, or even commence
  A jurymast or rudder, or could say
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck,
Still swam--though not exactly like a duck.

     XLI
The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less,
  But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope
To weather out much longer; the distress
  Was also great with which they had to cope
For want of water, and their solid mess
  Was scant enough: in vain the telescope
Was used--nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight,
Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night.

     XLII
Again the weather threaten'd,--again blew
  A gale, and in the fore and after hold
Water appear'd; yet, though the people knew
  All this, the most were patient, and some bold,
Until the chains and leathers were worn through
  Of all our pumps:--a wreck complete she roll'd,
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are
Like human beings during civil war.

     XLIII
Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears
  In his rough eyes, and told the captain he
Could do no more: he was a man in years,
  And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea,
And if he wept at length, they were not fears
  That made his eyelids as a woman's be,
But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children,--
Two things for dying people quite bewildering.

     XLIV
The ship was evidently settling now
  Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone,
Some went to prayers again, and made a vow
  Of candles to their saints--but there were none
To pay them with; and some look'd o'er the bow;
  Some hoisted out the boats; and there was one
That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution,
Who told him to be damn'd--in his confusion.

     XLV
Some lash'd them in their hammocks; some put on
  Their best clothes, as if going to a fair;
Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun,
  And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair;
And others went on as they had begun,
  Getting the boats out, being well aware
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea,
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee.

     XLVI
The worst of all was, that in their condition,
  Having been several days in great distress,
'T was difficult to get out such provision
  As now might render their long suffering less:
Men, even when dying, dislike inanition;
  Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress:
Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter
Were all that could be thrown into the cutter.

     XLVII
But in the long-boat they contrived to stow
  Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet;
Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so;
  Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get
A portion of their beef up from below,
  And with a piece of pork, moreover, met,
But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon--
Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon.

     XLVIII
The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had
  Been stove in the beginning of the gale;
And the long-boat's condition was but bad,
  As there were but two blankets for a sail,
And one oar for a mast, which a young lad
  Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail;
And two boats could not hold, far less be stored,
To save one half the people then on board.

     XLIX
'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down
  Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
  Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail,
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,
  And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,
And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear
Been their familiar, and now Death was here.

     L
Some trial had been making at a raft,
  With little hope in such a rolling sea,
A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd,
  If any laughter at such times could be,
Unless with people who too much have quaff'd,
  And have a kind of wild and horrid glee,
Half epileptical and half hysterical:--
Their preservation would have been a miracle.

     LI
At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars,
  And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose,
That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,
  For yet they strove, although of no great use:
There was no light in heaven but a few stars,
  The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews;
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,
And, going down head foremost--sunk, in short.

     LII
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell--
  Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
  As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,
  And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.

     LIII
And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
  Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
  Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,
  Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

     LIV
The boats, as stated, had got off before,
  And in them crowded several of the crew;
And yet their present hope was hardly more
  Than what it had been, for so strong it blew
There was slight chance of reaching any shore;
  And then they were too many, though so few--
Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat,
Were counted in them when they got afloat.

     LV
All the rest perish'd; near two hundred souls
  Had left their bodies; and what 's worse, alas!
When over Catholics the ocean rolls,
  They must wait several weeks before a mass
Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,
  Because, till people know what 's come to pass,
They won't lay out their money on the dead--
It costs three francs for every mass that 's said.

     LVI
Juan got into the long-boat, and there
  Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place;
It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care,
  For Juan wore the magisterial face
Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair
  Of eyes were crying for their owner's case:
Battista; though (a name call'd shortly Tita),
Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.

     LVII
Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save,
  But the same cause, conducive to his loss,
Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave
  As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross,
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave;
  They could not rescue him although so close,
Because the sea ran higher every minute,
And for the boat--the crew kept crowding in it.

     LVIII
A small old spaniel,--which had been Don Jose's,
  His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think,
For on such things the memory reposes
  With tenderness--stood howling on the brink,
Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses!),
  No doubt, the vessel was about to sink;
And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd
Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd.

     LIX
He also stuff'd his money where he could
  About his person, and Pedrillo's too,
Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would,
  Not knowing what himself to say, or do,
As every rising wave his dread renew'd;
  But Juan, trusting they might still get through,
And deeming there were remedies for any ill,
Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel.

     LX
'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet,
  That the sail was becalm'd between the seas,
Though on the wave's high top too much to set,
  They dared not take it in for all the breeze:
Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet,
  And made them bale without a moment's ease,
So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd,
And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd.

     LXI
Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat still
  Kept above water, with an oar for mast,
Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill
  Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast:
Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill,
  And present peril all before surpass'd,
They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter,
And also for the biscuit-casks and butter.

     LXII
The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign
  Of the continuance of the gale: to run
Before the sea until it should grow fine,
  Was all that for the present could be done:
A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine
  Were served out to the people, who begun
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags,
And most of them had little clothes but rags.

     LXIII
They counted thirty, crowded in a space
  Which left scarce room for motion or exertion;
They did their best to modify their case,
  One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion,
While t'other half were laid down in their place
  At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian
Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat,
With nothing but the sky for a great coat.

     LXIV
'T is very certain the desire of life
  Prolongs it: this is obvious to physicians,
When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife,
  Survive through very desperate conditions,
Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife
  Nor shears of Atropos before their visions:
Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,
And makes men miseries miseries of alarming brevity.

     LXV
'T is said that persons living on annuities
  Are longer lived than others,--God knows why,
Unless to plague the grantors,--yet so true it is,
  That some, I really think, do never die;
Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is,
  And that 's their mode of furnishing supply:
In my young days they lent me cash that way,
Which I found very troublesome to pay.

     LXVI
'T is thus with people in an open boat,
  They live upon the love of life, and bear
More than can be believed, or even thought,
  And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear;
And hardship still has been the sailor's lot,
  Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there;
She had a curious crew as well as cargo,
Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo.

     LXVII
But man is a carnivorous production,
  And must have meals, at least one meal a day;
He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction,
  But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey;
Although his anatomical construction
  Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way,
Your labouring people think beyond all question,
Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.

     LXVIII
And thus it was with this our hapless crew;
  For on the third day there came on a calm,
And though at first their strength it might renew,
  And lying on their weariness like balm,
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue
  Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm,
And fell all ravenously on their provision,
Instead of hoarding it with due precision.

     LXIX
The consequence was easily foreseen--
  They ate up all they had, and drank their wine,
In spite of all remonstrances, and then
  On what, in fact, next day were they to dine?
They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men!
  And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine,
But as they had but one oar, and that brittle,
It would have been more wise to save their victual.

     LXX
The fourth day came, but not a breath of air,
  And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child:
The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there,
  The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild--
With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair)
  What could they do? and hunger's rage grew wild:
So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating,
Was kill'd and portion'd out for present eating.

     LXXI
On the sixth day they fed upon his hide,
  And Juan, who had still refused, because
The creature was his father's dog that died,
  Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws,
With some remorse received (though first denied)
  As a great favour one of the fore-paws,
Which he divided with Pedrillo, who
Devour'd it, longing for the other too.

     LXXII
The seventh day, and no wind--the burning sun
  Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea,
They lay like carcasses; and hope was none,
  Save in the breeze that came not; savagely
They glared upon each other--all was done,
  Water, and wine, and food,--and you might see
The longings of the cannibal arise
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.

     LXXIII
At length one whisper'd his companion, who
  Whisper'd another, and thus it went round,
And then into a hoarser murmur grew,
  An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound;
And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew,
  'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found:
And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood,
And who should die to be his fellow's food.

     LXXIV
But ere they came to this, they that day shared
  Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes;
And then they look'd around them and despair'd,
  And none to be the sacrifice would choose;
At length the lots were torn up, and prepared,
  But of materials that much shock the Muse--
Having no paper, for the want of better,
They took by force from Juan Julia's letter.

     LXXV
The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed,
  In silent horror, and their distribution
Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded,
  Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution;
None in particular had sought or plann'd it,
  'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution,
By which none were permitted to be neuter--
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor.