3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

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      Of human frailty, folly, also crime,

      That love and marriage rarely can combine,

      Although they both are born in the same clime;

      Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine—

      A sad, sour, sober beverage—by time

      Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour

      Down to a very homely household savour.

      There 's something of antipathy, as 't were,

      Between their present and their future state;

      A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair

      Is used until the truth arrives too late—

      Yet what can people do, except despair?

      The same things change their names at such a rate;

      For instance—passion in a lover 's glorious,

      But in a husband is pronounced uxorious.

      Men grow ashamed of being so very fond;

      They sometimes also get a little tired

      (But that, of course, is rare), and then despond:

      The same things cannot always be admired,

      Yet 't is 'so nominated in the bond,'

      That both are tied till one shall have expired.

      Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning

      Our days, and put one's servants into mourning.

      There 's doubtless something in domestic doings

      Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis;

      Romances paint at full length people's wooings,

      But only give a bust of marriages;

      For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,

      There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss:

      Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife,

      He would have written sonnets all his life?

      All tragedies are finish'd by a death,

      All comedies are ended by a marriage;

      The future states of both are left to faith,

      For authors fear description might disparage

      The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath,

      And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage;

      So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready,

      They say no more of Death or of the Lady.

      The only two that in my recollection

      Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are

      Dante and Milton, and of both the affection

      Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar

      Of fault or temper ruin'd the connection

      (Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar):

      But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve

      Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive.

      Some persons say that Dante meant theology

      By Beatrice, and not a mistress—I,

      Although my opinion may require apology,

      Deem this a commentator's fantasy,

      Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he

      Decided thus, and show'd good reason why;

      I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics

      Meant to personify the mathematics.

      Haidee and Juan were not married, but

      The fault was theirs, not mine; it is not fair,

      Chaste reader, then, in any way to put

      The blame on me, unless you wish they were;

      Then if you 'd have them wedded, please to shut

      The book which treats of this erroneous pair,

      Before the consequences grow too awful;

      'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful.

      Yet they were happy,—happy in the illicit

      Indulgence of their innocent desires;

      But more imprudent grown with every visit,

      Haidee forgot the island was her sire's;

      When we have what we like, 't is hard to miss it,

      At least in the beginning, ere one tires;

      Thus she came often, not a moment losing,

      Whilst her piratical papa was cruising.

      Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange,

      Although he fleeced the flags of every nation,

      For into a prime minister but change

      His title, and 't is nothing but taxation;

      But he, more modest, took an humbler range

      Of life, and in an honester vocation

      Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey,

      And merely practised as a sea-attorney.

      The good old gentleman had been detain'd

      By winds and waves, and some important captures;

      And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd,

      Although a squall or two had damp'd his raptures,

      By swamping one of the prizes; he had chain'd

      His prisoners, dividing them like chapters

      In number'd lots; they all had cuffs and collars,

      And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars.

      Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan,

      Among his friends the Mainots; some he sold

      To his Tunis correspondents, save one man

      Toss'd overboard unsaleable (being old);

      The rest—save here and there some richer one,

      Reserved for future ransom—in the hold

      Were link'd alike, as for the common people he

      Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli.

      The merchandise was served in the same way,

      Pieced out for different marts in the Levant;

      Except some certain portions of the prey,

      Light classic articles of female want,

      French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, tray,

      Guitars and castanets from Alicant,

      All which selected from the spoil he gathers,

      Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers.

      A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw,

      Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens,

      He chose from several animals he saw—

      A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's,

      Who dying on the coast