825 'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour Of half-past six?perhaps still nearer seven, When Julia sate within as pretty a bower As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore,9
830 To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, With all the trophies of triumphant song? He won them well, and may he wear them long!
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She sate, but not alone; I know not well How this same interview had taken place, 835 And even if I knew, I should not tell? People should hold their tongues in any case; No matter how or why the thing befell, But there were she and Juan, face to face? When two such faces are so,'twould be wise, 840 But very difficult, to shut their eyes.
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How beautiful she look'd! her conscious1 heart Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. Oh Love! how perfect is thy mystic art, Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong,
8. I.e., postobit bonds (post obitum, 'after death' 1800 had translated the Odes of the ancient Greek [Latin]): loans to an heir that fall due after the Anacreon and whose popular Orientalist poem death of the person whose estate he or she is to Lalla Rookh (1817) had portrayed the 'heathenish inherit. Byron's meaning is probably that only the-heaven' of Islam as populated by 'houris,' beauology purports to tell us what rewards are due in tiful maidens who in the afterlife will give heroes heaven. their reward. 9. Byron's friend the poet Thomas Moore, who in 1. Secretly aware (of her feelings).
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DO N JUAN, CANTO 1 / 683
845 How self-deceitful is the sagest part
Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along?
The precipice she stood on was immense,
So was her creed? in her own innocence. belief
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She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, 850 And of the folly of all prudish fears, Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth, Because that number rarely much endears, 855 And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money.
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u3 The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: The devil's in the moon for mischief; they Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon 900 Their nomenclature; there is not a day, The longest, not the twenty-first of June,
Sees half the business in a wicked way
On which three single hours of moonshine smile?
And then she looks so modest all the while.
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905 There is a dangerous silence in that hour,
A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul
To open all itself, without the power
Of calling wholly back its self-control;
The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, 910 Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws A loving languor, which is not repose.
'5 And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced And half retiring from the glowing arm, 915 Which trembled like the bosom where 'twas placed; Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, Or else 'twere easy to withdraw her waist; But then the situation had its charm, And then?God knows what next?I can't go on; 920 I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun.
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Oh Plato! Plato! you have paved the way, With your confounded fantasies, to more Immoral conduct by the fancied sway Your system feigns o'er the controlless core 925 Of human hearts, than all the long array Of poets and romancers:?You're a bore,
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68 4 / GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON
A charlatan, a coxcomb?and have been, At best, no better than a go-between.
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And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, 930
Until too late for useful conversation; The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion, But who, alas! can love, and then be wise? Not that remorse did not oppose temptation, 935 A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering 'I will ne'er consent'?consented.
* $ $ 126
'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end To strife; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend; 1005 Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in
