3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

limbs; and the fair arm

      Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung;

      And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm,

      Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung

      His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm;

      And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew

      A sigh from his heaved bosom—and hers, too.

      And lifting him with care into the cave,

      The gentle girl and her attendant,—one

      Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave,

      And more robust of figure,—then begun

      To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave

      Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun

      Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er

      She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair.

      Her brow was overhung with coins of gold,

      That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair—

      Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd

      In braids behind; and though her stature were

      Even of the highest for a female mould,

      They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air

      There was a something which bespoke command,

      As one who was a lady in the land.

      Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes

      Were black as death, their lashes the same hue,

      Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies

      Deepest attraction; for when to the view

      Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,

      Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew;

      'T is as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length,

      And hurls at once his venom and his strength.

      Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye

      Like twilight rosy still with the set sun;

      Short upper lip—sweet lips! that make us sigh

      Ever to have seen such; for she was one

      Fit for the model of a statuary

      (A race of mere impostors, when all 's done—

      I 've seen much finer women, ripe and real,

      Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal).

      I 'll tell you why I say so, for 't is just

      One should not rail without a decent cause:

      There was an Irish lady, to whose bust

      I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was

      A frequent model; and if e'er she must

      Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws,

      They will destroy a face which mortal thought

      Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought.

      And such was she, the lady of the cave:

      Her dress was very different from the Spanish,

      Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave;

      For, as you know, the Spanish women banish

      Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave

      Around them (what I hope will never vanish)

      The basquina and the mantilla, they

      Seem at the same time mystical and gay.

      But with our damsel this was not the case:

      Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun;

      Her locks curl'd negligently round her face,

      But through them gold and gems profusely shone:

      Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace

      Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone

      Flash'd on her little hand; but, what was shocking,

      Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking.

      The other female's dress was not unlike,

      But of inferior materials: she

      Had not so many ornaments to strike,

      Her hair had silver only, bound to be

      Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike,

      Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less free;

      Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eyes

      As black, but quicker, and of smaller size.

      And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both

      With food and raiment, and those soft attentions,

      Which are (as I must own) of female growth,

      And have ten thousand delicate inventions:

      They made a most superior mess of broth,

      A thing which poesy but seldom mentions,

      But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's

      Achilles ordered dinner for new comers.

      I 'll tell you who they were, this female pair,

      Lest they should seem princesses in disguise;

      Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air

      Of clap-trap which your recent poets prize;

      And so, in short, the girls they really were

      They shall appear before your curious eyes,

      Mistress and maid; the first was only daughter

      Of an old man who lived upon the water.

      A fisherman he had been in his youth,

      And still a sort of fisherman was he;

      But other speculations were, in sooth,

      Added to his connection with the sea,

      Perhaps not so respectable, in truth:

      A little smuggling, and some piracy,

      Left him, at last, the sole of many masters

      Of an ill-gotten million of piastres.

      A fisher, therefore, was he,—though of men,

      Like Peter the Apostle,—and he fish'd

      For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then,

      And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd;

      The cargoes he confiscated, and gain

      He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd

      Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade,

      By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made.

      He was a Greek, and on his isle had built

      (One of the wild and smaller Cyclades)

      A very handsome house from out his guilt,

      And there he lived exceedingly at ease;

      Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he spilt,

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