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the place—but 'Verbum sat.'

      I think I pick'd up too, as well as most,

      Knowledge of matters—but no matter what—

      I never married—but, I think, I know

      That sons should not be educated so.

      Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,

      Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd

      Active, though not so sprightly, as a page;

      And everybody but his mother deem'd

      Him almost man; but she flew in a rage

      And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd)

      If any said so, for to be precocious

      Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.

      Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all

      Selected for discretion and devotion,

      There was the Donna Julia, whom to call

      Pretty were but to give a feeble notion

      Of many charms in her as natural

      As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean,

      Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid

      (But this last simile is trite and stupid).

      The darkness of her Oriental eye

      Accorded with her Moorish origin

      (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by;

      In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin);

      When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly,

      Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin

      Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain,

      Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain.

      She married (I forget the pedigree)

      With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down

      His blood less noble than such blood should be;

      At such alliances his sires would frown,

      In that point so precise in each degree

      That they bred in and in, as might be shown,

      Marrying their cousins—nay, their aunts, and nieces,

      Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.

      This heathenish cross restored the breed again,

      Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh;

      For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain

      Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;

      The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:

      But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush,

      'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma

      Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.

      However this might be, the race went on

      Improving still through every generation,

      Until it centred in an only son,

      Who left an only daughter; my narration

      May have suggested that this single one

      Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion

      I shall have much to speak about), and she

      Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.

      Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes)

      Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire

      Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise

      Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,

      And love than either; and there would arise

      A something in them which was not desire,

      But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul

      Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole.

      Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow

      Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth;

      Her eyebrow's shape was like th' aerial bow,

      Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,

      Mounting at times to a transparent glow,

      As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth,

      Possess'd an air and grace by no means common:

      Her stature tall—I hate a dumpy woman.

      Wedded she was some years, and to a man

      Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;

      And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE

      'T were better to have TWO of five-and-twenty,

      Especially in countries near the sun:

      And now I think on 't, 'mi vien in mente,'

      Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue

      Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.

      'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,

      And all the fault of that indecent sun,

      Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,

      But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,

      That howsoever people fast and pray,

      The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:

      What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,

      Is much more common where the climate 's sultry.

      Happy the nations of the moral North!

      Where all is virtue, and the winter season

      Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth

      ('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);

      Where juries cast up what a wife is worth,

      By laying whate'er sum in mulct they please on

      The lover, who must pay a handsome price,

      Because it is a marketable vice.

      Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord,

      A man well looking for his years, and who

      Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd:

      They lived together, as most people do,

      Suffering each other's foibles by accord,

      And not exactly either one or two;

      Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,

      For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

      Julia was—yet I never could see why—

      With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;

      Between their tastes there was small sympathy,

      For not a line had Julia ever penn'd:

      Some people whisper but no doubt they lie,

      For malice still imputes some private end,

      That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage,

      Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;

      And that

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