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I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest—

       I 've nothing to reproach, or to request.

       'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,

       'T is woman's whole existence; man may range

       The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart;

       Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange

       Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,

       And few there are whom these cannot estrange;

       Men have all these resources, we but one,

       To love again, and be again undone.

       'You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,

       Beloved and loving many; all is o'er

       For me on earth, except some years to hide

       My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core;

       These I could bear, but cannot cast aside

       The passion which still rages as before—

       And so farewell—forgive me, love me—No,

       That word is idle now—but let it go.

       'My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;

       But still I think I can collect my mind;

       My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set,

       As roll the waves before the settled wind;

       My heart is feminine, nor can forget—

       To all, except one image, madly blind;

       So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,

       As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul.

       'I have no more to say, but linger still,

       And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,

       And yet I may as well the task fulfil,

       My misery can scarce be more complete:

       I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;

       Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet,

       And I must even survive this last adieu,

       And bear with life, to love and pray for you!'

       This note was written upon gilt-edged paper

       With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new:

       Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper,

       It trembled as magnetic needles do,

       And yet she did not let one tear escape her;

       The seal a sun-flower; 'Elle vous suit partout,'

       The motto cut upon a white cornelian;

       The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion.

       This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whether

       I shall proceed with his adventures is

       Dependent on the public altogether;

       We 'll see, however, what they say to this:

       Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather,

       And no great mischief 's done by their caprice;

       And if their approbation we experience,

       Perhaps they 'll have some more about a year hence.

       My poem 's epic, and is meant to be

       Divided in twelve books; each book containing,

       With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,

       A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,

       New characters; the episodes are three:

       A panoramic view of hell 's in training,

       After the style of Virgil and of Homer,

       So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer.

       All these things will be specified in time,

       With strict regard to Aristotle's rules,

       The Vade Mecum of the true sublime,

       Which makes so many poets, and some fools:

       Prose poets like blank-verse, I 'm fond of rhyme,

       Good workmen never quarrel with their tools;

       I 've got new mythological machinery,

       And very handsome supernatural scenery.

       There 's only one slight difference between

       Me and my epic brethren gone before,

       And here the advantage is my own, I ween

       (Not that I have not several merits more,

       But this will more peculiarly be seen);

       They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore

       Their labyrinth of fables to thread through,

       Whereas this story 's actually true.

       If any person doubt it, I appeal

       To history, tradition, and to facts,

       To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel,

       To plays in five, and operas in three acts;

       All these confirm my statement a good deal,

       But that which more completely faith exacts

       Is that myself, and several now in Seville,

       Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil.

       If ever I should condescend to prose,

       I 'll write poetical commandments, which

       Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those

       That went before; in these I shall enrich

       My text with many things that no one knows,

       And carry precept to the highest pitch:

       I 'll call the work 'Longinus o'er a Bottle,

       Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.'

       Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;

       Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;

       Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,

       The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy:

       With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,

       And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy:

       Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor

       Commit—flirtation with the muse of Moore.

       Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse,

       His Pegasus, nor anything that 's his;

       Thou shalt not bear false witness like 'the Blues'

       (There 's one, at least, is very fond of this);

       Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose:

       This is true criticism, and you may kiss—

       Exactly as you please, or not—the rod;

       If any person should presume to assert

       This story is not moral, first, I pray,

       That they will not cry out before they 're hurt,

       Then that they 'll read it o'er again, and say

       (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert)

       That this is not a moral tale, though gay;

       Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show

       The very place where wicked people go.

       If, after all, there should be some so blind

       To their own good this warning to despise,

       Led by some tortuosity

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