But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time In the last line, which cannot well be worse, And was thrust in to close the octave's chime:
I own no prosody can ever rate it As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it.
If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, I know not- it succeeded, and success Is much in most things, not less in the heart Than other articles of female dress.
Self-love in man, too, beats all female art;
They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less;
And no one virtue yet, except starvation, Could stop that worst of vices- propagation.
We leave this royal couple to repose:
A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes:
Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep As any man's day mixture undergoes.
Our least of sorrows are such as we weep;
'T is the vile daily drop on drop which wears The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares.
A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted At a per-centage; a child cross, dog ill, A favourite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted, A bad old woman making a worse will, Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted As certain;- these are paltry things, and yet I 've rarely seen the man they did not fret.
I 'm a philosopher; confound them all!
Bills, beasts, and men, and- no! not womankind!
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, And then my stoicism leaves nought behind Which it can either pain or evil call, And I can give my whole soul up to mind;
Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth, Is more than I know- the deuce take them both!
As after reading Athanasius' curse, Which doth your true believer so much please:
I doubt if any now could make it worse O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 'T is so sententious, positive, and terse, And decorates the book of Common Prayer, As doth a rainbow the just clearing air.
Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or At least one of them!- Oh, the heavy night, When wicked wives, who love some bachelor, Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light Of the gray morning, and look vainly for Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite-To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake!
These are beneath the canopy of heaven, Also beneath the canopy of beds Four-posted and silk curtain'd, which are given For rich men and their brides to lay their heads Upon, in sheets white as what bards call 'driven Snow.' Well! 't is all hap-hazard when one weds.
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean.
Don Juan in his feminine disguise, With all the damsels in their long array, Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial eyes, And at the usual signal ta'en their way Back to their chambers, those long galleries In the seraglio, where the ladies lay Their delicate limbs; a thousand bosoms there Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air.
I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse The tyrant's wish, 'that mankind only had One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce:'
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, And much more tender on the whole than fierce;
It being (not now, but only while a lad)
That womankind had but one rosy mouth, To kiss them all at once from North to South.
Oh, enviable Briareus! with thy hands And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied In such proportion!- But my Muse withstands The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, Or travelling in Patagonian lands;
So let us back to Lilliput, and guide Our hero through the labyrinth of love In which we left him several lines above.
He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, At the given signal join'd to their array;
And though he certainly ran many risks, Yet he could not at times keep, by the way (Although the consequences of such frisks Are worse than the worst damages men pay In moral England, where the thing 's a tax), From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs.
Still he forgot not his disguise:- along The galleries from room to room they walk'd, A virgin-like and edifying throng, By eunuchs flank'd; while at their head there stalk'd A dame who kept up discipline among The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd Without her sanction on their she-parades:
Her title was 'the Mother of the Maids.'
Whether she was a 'mother,' I know not, Or whether they were 'maids' who call'd her mother;
But this is her seraglio title, got I know not how, but good as any other;
So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott:
Her office was to keep aloof or smother All bad propensities in fifteen hundred Young women, and correct them when they blunder'd.
A goodly sinecure, no doubt! but made More easy by the absence of all men-Except his majesty, who, with her aid, And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then A slight example, just to cast a shade Along the rest, contrived to keep this den Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, Where all the passions have, alas! but one vent.
And what is that? Devotion, doubtless- how Could you ask such a question?- but we will Continue. As I said, this goodly row Of ladies of all countries at the will Of one good man, with stately march and slow, Like water-lilies floating down a rill-Or rather lake, for rills do not run slowly-Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy.
But when they reach'd their own apartments, there, Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere When freed from bonds (which are of no great use After all), or like Irish at a fair, Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce Establish'd between them and bondage, they Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play.
Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer;
Her shape, her hair, her air, her everything:
Some thought her dress did not so much become her, Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring;
Some said her years were getting nigh their summer, Others contended they were but in spring;
Some thought her rather masculine in height, While others wish'd that she had been so quite.
