3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

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      March has its hares, and May must have its heroine.

      'T was on a summer's day—the sixth of June:—

      I like to be particular in dates,

      Not only of the age, and year, but moon;

      They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates

      Change horses, making history change its tune,

      Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states,

      Leaving at last not much besides chronology,

      Excepting the post-obits of theology.

      'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour

      Of half-past six—perhaps still nearer seven—

      When Julia sate within as pretty a bower

      As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven

      Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore,

      To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,

      With all the trophies of triumphant song—

      He won them well, and may he wear them long!

      She sate, but not alone; I know not well

      How this same interview had taken place,

      And even if I knew, I should not tell—

      People should hold their tongues in any case;

      No matter how or why the thing befell,

      But there were she and Juan, face to face—

      When two such faces are so, 't would be wise,

      But very difficult, to shut their eyes.

      How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart

      Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong.

      O Love! how perfect is thy mystic art,

      Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong,

      How self-deceitful is the sagest part

      Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along—

      The precipice she stood on was immense,

      So was her creed in her own innocence.

      She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth,

      And of the folly of all prudish fears,

      Victorious virtue, and domestic truth,

      And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years:

      I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth,

      Because that number rarely much endears,

      And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny,

      Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money.

      When people say, 'I've told you fifty times,'

      They mean to scold, and very often do;

      When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,'

      They make you dread that they 'll recite them too;

      In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes;

      At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true,

      But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,

      A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

      Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love,

      For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore,

      By all the vows below to powers above,

      She never would disgrace the ring she wore,

      Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove;

      And while she ponder'd this, besides much more,

      One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown,

      Quite by mistake—she thought it was her own;

      Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other,

      Which play'd within the tangles of her hair:

      And to contend with thoughts she could not smother

      She seem'd by the distraction of her air.

      'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother

      To leave together this imprudent pair,

      She who for many years had watch'd her son so—

      I 'm very certain mine would not have done so.

      The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees

      Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp,

      As if it said, 'Detain me, if you please;'

      Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp

      His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze:

      She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp,

      Had she imagined such a thing could rouse

      A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse.

      I cannot know what Juan thought of this,

      But what he did, is much what you would do;

      His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss,

      And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew

      In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,—

      Love is so very timid when 't is new:

      She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak,

      And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.

      The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon:

      The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they

      Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon

      Their nomenclature; there is not a day,

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