3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville?

      Is it for this I scarce went anywhere,

      Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel?

      Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were,

      I favor'd none—nay, was almost uncivil?

      Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly,

      Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely?

      'Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani

      Sing at my heart six months at least in vain?

      Did not his countryman, Count Corniani,

      Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain?

      Were there not also Russians, English, many?

      The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain,

      And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer,

      Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year.

      'Have I not had two bishops at my feet,

      The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez?

      And is it thus a faithful wife you treat?

      I wonder in what quarter now the moon is:

      I praise your vast forbearance not to beat

      Me also, since the time so opportune is—

      O, valiant man! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger,

      Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure?

      'Was it for this you took your sudden journey.

      Under pretence of business indispensable

      With that sublime of rascals your attorney,

      Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible

      Of having play'd the fool? though both I spurn, he

      Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible,

      Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee,

      And not from any love to you nor me.

      'If he comes here to take a deposition,

      By all means let the gentleman proceed;

      You 've made the apartment in a fit condition:

      There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need—

      Let every thing be noted with precision,

      I would not you for nothing should be fee'd—

      But, as my maid 's undrest, pray turn your spies out.'

      'Oh!' sobb'd Antonia, 'I could tear their eyes out.'

      'There is the closet, there the toilet, there

      The antechamber—search them under, over;

      There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair,

      The chimney—which would really hold a lover.

      I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care

      And make no further noise, till you discover

      The secret cavern of this lurking treasure—

      And when 't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure.

      'And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown

      Doubt upon me, confusion over all,

      Pray have the courtesy to make it known

      Who is the man you search for? how d' ye cal

      Him? what 's his lineage? let him but be shown—

      I hope he 's young and handsome—is he tall?

      Tell me—and be assured, that since you stain

      My honour thus, it shall not be in vain.

      'At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years,

      At that age he would be too old for slaughter,

      Or for so young a husband's jealous fears

      (Antonia! let me have a glass of water).

      I am ashamed of having shed these tears,

      They are unworthy of my father's daughter;

      My mother dream'd not in my natal hour

      That I should fall into a monster's power.

      'Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous,

      You saw that she was sleeping by my side

      When you broke in upon us with your fellows:

      Look where you please—we 've nothing, sir, to hide;

      Only another time, I trust, you 'll tell us,

      Or for the sake of decency abide

      A moment at the door, that we may be

      Drest to receive so much good company.

      'And now, sir, I have done, and say no more;

      The little I have said may serve to show

      The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er

      The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow:

      I leave you to your conscience as before,

      'T will one day ask you why you used me so?

      God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!-

      Antonia! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?'

      She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale

      She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,

      Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,

      Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears

      Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail,

      To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears

      Its snow through all;—her soft lips lie apart,

      And louder than her breathing beats her heart.

      The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused;

      Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room,

      And, turning up her nose, with looks abused

      Her master and his myrmidons, of whom

      Not one, except the attorney, was amused;

      He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb,

      So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause,

      Knowing they must be settled by the laws.

      With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood,

      Following Antonia's motions here and there,

      With much suspicion in his attitude;

      For reputations he had little care;

      So that a suit or action were made good,

      Small pity had he for the young and fair,

      And ne'er believed in negatives, till these

      Were proved by competent false witnesses.

      But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks,

      And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure;

      When, after searching in five hundred nooks,

      And treating a young wife with so much rigour,

      He