3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

      And when those deep and burning moments pass'd,

      And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms,

      She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast,

      Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms;

      And now and then her eye to heaven is cast,

      And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms,

      Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants

      With all it granted, and with all it grants.

      An infant when it gazes on a light,

      A child the moment when it drains the breast,

      A devotee when soars the Host in sight,

      An Arab with a stranger for a guest,

      A sailor when the prize has struck in fight,

      A miser filling his most hoarded chest,

      Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping

      As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping.

      For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved,

      All that it hath of life with us is living;

      So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved,

      And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving;

      All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved,

      Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving:

      There lies the thing we love with all its errors

      And all its charms, like death without its terrors.

      The lady watch'd her lover—and that hour

      Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude,

      O'erflow'd her soul with their united power;

      Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude

      She and her wave-worn love had made their bower,

      Where nought upon their passion could intrude,

      And all the stars that crowded the blue space

      Saw nothing happier than her glowing face.

      Alas! the love of women! it is known

      To be a lovely and a fearful thing;

      For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,

      And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring

      To them but mockeries of the past alone,

      And their revenge is as the tiger's spring,

      Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real

      Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.

      They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust,

      Is always so to women; one sole bond

      Awaits them, treachery is all their trust;

      Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond

      Over their idol, till some wealthier lust

      Buys them in marriage—and what rests beyond?

      A thankless husband, next a faithless lover,

      Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over.

      Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers,

      Some mind their household, others dissipation,

      Some run away, and but exchange their cares,

      Losing the advantage of a virtuous station;

      Few changes e'er can better their affairs,

      Theirs being an unnatural situation,

      From the dull palace to the dirty hovel:

      Some play the devil, and then write a novel.

      Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this;

      Haidee was Passion's child, born where the sun

      Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss

      Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was one

      Made but to love, to feel that she was his

      Who was her chosen: what was said or done

      Elsewhere was nothing. She had naught to fear,

      Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat here.

      And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat!

      How much it costs us! yet each rising throb

      Is in its cause as its effect so sweet,

      That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob

      Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat

      Fine truths; even Conscience, too, has a tough job

      To make us understand each good old maxim,

      So good—I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em.

      And now 't was done—on the lone shore were plighted

      Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed

      Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted:

      Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed,

      By their own feelings hallow'd and united,

      Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed:

      And they were happy, for to their young eyes

      Each was an angel, and earth paradise.

      O, Love! of whom great Caesar was the suitor,

      Titus the master, Antony the slave,

      Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor,

      Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave

      All those may leap who rather would be neuter

      (Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave)—

      O, Love! thou art the very god of evil,

      For, after all, we cannot call thee devil.

      Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious,

      And jestest with the brows of mightiest men:

      Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius,

      Have much employ'd the muse of history's pen;

      Their lives and fortunes were extremely various,

      Such worthies Time will never see again;

      Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds,

      They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds.

      Thou mak'st philosophers; there 's Epicurus

      And Aristippus, a material crew!

      Who to immoral courses would allure us

      By theories quite practicable too;

      If only from the devil they would insure us,

      How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new),

      'Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?'

      So said the royal sage Sardanapalus.

      But Juan! had he quite forgotten Julia?

      And should he have forgotten her so soon?

      I can't but say it seems to me most truly