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LXXV.

One hates an author that 's all author, fellows
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink,
So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous,

One do n't know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;

Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink Are preferable to these shreds of paper, These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper.

LXXVI.

Of these same we see several, and of others,
Men of the world, who know the world like men,
Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers,
Who think of something else besides the pen ;
But for the children of the "mighty mother's,"
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen,
I leave them to their daily "tea is ready,"
Smug coterie, and literary lady.

LXXVII.

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention Have none of these instructive pleasant people, And one would seem to them a new invention,

Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; I think 't would almost be worth while to pension (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) A missionary author, just to preach

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech.

LXXVIII.

No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses,
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures,
No circulating library amasses

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures
Upon the living manners, as they pass us;

No exhibition glares with annual pictures; They stare not on the stars from out their attics, Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics.

LXXIX.

Why I thank God for that is no great matter,
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose,
And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter,
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose;

I fear I have a little turn for satire,

And yet methinks the older that one grows

Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after.

LXXX.

Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water!
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days!
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter,
Abominable Man no more allays

His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter,
I love you both, and both shall have my praise :
Oh. for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy! -
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy.

LXXXI.

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her,
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way,
Which seems to say, 66
Madam, I do you honour,
"And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay:
Could staring win a woman, this had won her,
But Laura could not thus be led astray;
She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle
Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle.

LXXXII.

The morning now was on the point of breaking,
A turn of time at which I would advise
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking
other kind of exercise,

In any

To make their preparations for forsaking

The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, Because when once the lamps and candles fail, His blushes make them look a little pale.

LXXXIII.

I've seen some balls and revels in my time,
And stay'd them over for some silly reason,
And then I look'd, (I hope it was no crime,)

To see what lady best stood out the season;
And though I've seen some thousands in their prime,
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on,
I never saw but one, (the stars withdrawn),
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn.

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LXXXIV.

The name of this Aurora I 'll not mention,
Although I might, for she was nought to me
More than that patent work of God's invention,
A charming woman, whom we like to see;
But writing names would merit reprehension,
Yet if you like to find out this fair she,

At the next London or Parisian ball

You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all.

LXXXV.

Laura, who knew it would not do at all

To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting Among three thousand people at a ball,

To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting;
The Count was at her elbow with her shawl,

And they the room were on the point of quitting,
When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got
Just in the very place where they should not.

LXXXVI.

In this they 're like our coachmen, and the cause
Is much the same the crowd, and pulling, hauling,
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws,
They make a never intermitting bawling.

At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws,
And here a sentry stands within your calling;
But for all that, there is a deal of swearing,
And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing.

LXXXVII.

The Count and Laura found their boat at last,
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide,
Discussing all the dances gone and past;
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside;
Some little scandals eke: but all aghast

(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer,

When lo! the Mussulman was there before her.

LXXXVIII.

"Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave,

"Your unexpected presence here will make

"It necessary for myself to crave

"Its import? But perhaps 't is a mistake;

"I hope it is so; and at once to wave

"All compliment, I hope so for your sake; "You understand my meaning, or you shall."

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Sir," (quoth the Turk,) " 't is no mistake at all.

LXXXIX.

"That lady is my wife!" Much wonder paints 'The lady's changing cheek, as well it might ; But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, Italian females do n't do so outright;

They only call a little on their saints,

And then come to themselves, almost or quite ; Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, And cutting stays, as usual in such cases.

She said,

XC.

what could she say? Why, not a word : But the Count courteously invited in

The stranger, much appeased by what he heard:
"Such things, perhaps, we 'd best discuss within,"
Said he; "do n't let us make ourselves absurd
"In public, by a scene, nor raise a din,

For then the chief and only satisfaction
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction."

XCI.

They enter'd, and for coffee call'd

- it came,

A beverage for Turks and Christians both, Although the way they make it 's not the same. Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth

To speak, cries" Beppo! what's your pagan name? Bless me! your beard is of amazing growth!

And how came you to keep away so long?

Are not sensible 't was very wrong?

you

XCII.

"And are you really, truly, now a Turk?
With any other women did you wive?
Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork?

Well, that's the prettiest shawl- as I'm alive!
You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork.
And how so many years did you contrive

To-Bless me! did I ever? No, I never
Saw a man grown so yellow! How's your liver?

66

Beppo! that beard of

XCIII.

yours becomes you not; It shall be shaved before you 're a day older : Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot

Pray do n't you think the weather here is colder? How do I look? You sha'n't stir from this spot

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder Should find you out, and make the story known. How short your hair is! Lord! how gray it's grown!"

XCIV.

What answer Beppo made to these demands

Is more than I know. He was cast away
About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands ;
Became a slave of course, and for his pay
Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands
Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay,
He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became
A renegado of indifferent fame.

XCV.

But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so
Keen the desire to see his home again,
He thought himself in duty bound to do so,
And not be always thieving on the main ;
Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe,

And so he hired a vessel come from Spain,
Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polacca,
Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco.

XCVI.

Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten!) cash,
He then embark'd with risk of life and limb,
And got clear off, although the attempt was rash;
He said that Providence protected him-

For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash

In our opinions : well, the ship was trim, Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn.

XCVII.

They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading,
And self and live stock, to another bottom,
And pass'd for a true Turkey merchant, trading
With goods of various names, but I've forgot 'em

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