3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

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      There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers;

      While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb,

      The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers

      His sober head, majestically tame,

      Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers

      His brow, as if in act to butt, and then

      Yielding to their small hands, draws back again.

      Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses,

      Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks,

      Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses,

      The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks,

      The innocence which happy childhood blesses,

      Made quite a picture of these little Greeks;

      So that the philosophical beholder

      Sigh'd for their sakes—that they should e'er grow older.

      Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales

      To a sedate grey circle of old smokers,

      Of secret treasures found in hidden vales,

      Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers,

      Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails,

      Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers,

      Of magic ladies who, by one sole act,

      Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that 's a fact).

      Here was no lack of innocent diversion

      For the imagination or the senses,

      Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian,

      All pretty pastimes in which no offence is;

      But Lambro saw all these things with aversion,

      Perceiving in his absence such expenses,

      Dreading that climax of all human ills,

      The inflammation of his weekly bills.

      Ah! what is man? what perils still environ

      The happiest mortals even after dinner—

      A day of gold from out an age of iron

      Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner;

      Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren,

      That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner;

      Lambro's reception at his people's banquet

      Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket.

      He—being a man who seldom used a word

      Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise

      (In general he surprised men with the sword)

      His daughter—had not sent before to advise

      Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd;

      And long he paused to re-assure his eyes

      In fact much more astonish'd than delighted,

      To find so much good company invited.

      He did not know (alas! how men will lie)

      That a report (especially the Greeks)

      Avouch'd his death (such people never die),

      And put his house in mourning several weeks,—

      But now their eyes and also lips were dry;

      The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidee's cheeks,

      Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount,

      She now kept house upon her own account.

      Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling,

      Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure;

      The servants all were getting drunk or idling,

      A life which made them happy beyond measure.

      Her father's hospitality seem'd middling,

      Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure;

      'T was wonderful how things went on improving,

      While she had not one hour to spare from loving.

      Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast

      He flew into a passion, and in fact

      There was no mighty reason to be pleased;

      Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act,

      The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least,

      To teach his people to be more exact,

      And that, proceeding at a very high rate,

      He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate.

      You 're wrong.—He was the mildest manner'd man

      That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat:

      With such true breeding of a gentleman,

      You never could divine his real thought;

      No courtier could, and scarcely woman can

      Gird more deceit within a petticoat;

      Pity he loved adventurous life's variety,

      He was so great a loss to good society.

      Advancing to the nearest dinner tray,

      Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest,

      With a peculiar smile, which, by the way,

      Boded no good, whatever it express'd,

      He ask'd the meaning of this holiday;

      The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd

      His question, much too merry to divine

      The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine,

      And without turning his facetious head,

      Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air,

      Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said,

      'Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare.'

      A second hiccup'd, 'Our old master 's dead,

      You 'd better ask our mistress who 's his heir.'

      'Our mistress!' quoth a third: 'Our mistress!—pooh!-

      You mean our master—not the old, but new.'

      These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom

      They thus address'd—and Lambro's visage fell—

      And o'er his eye a momentary gloom

      Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell

      The expression, and endeavouring to resume

      His smile, requested one of them to tell

      The name and quality of his new patron,

      Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron.

      'I know not,' quoth the fellow, 'who or what

      He is, nor whence he came—and little care;

      But this I know, that this roast capon 's fat,

      And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare;

      And