CXVIII.

"Tis said that Xerxes offer'd a reward

To those who could invent him a new pleasure; Methinks, the requisition's rather hard,

And must have cost his majesty a treasure:
For my part, I'm a moderate-minded bard,
Fond of a little love (which I call leisure);
I care not for new pleasures, as the old
Are quite enough for me, so they but hold.

CXIX.

Oh Pleasure! you're indeed a pleasant thing, Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt; I make a resolution every spring

Of reformation, ere the year run out,

But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout: I'm very sorry, very much ashamed,

And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd.

CXX.

Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take
Start not! still chaster reader

she'll be nice

hence

Forward, and there is no great cause to quake;

This liberty is a poetic licence,

Which some irregularity may make

In the design, and as I have a high sense

Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit

To beg his pardon when I err a bit.

CXXI.!

This licence is to hope the reader will
Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day,
Without whose epoch my poetic skill

For want of facts would all be thrown away), But keeping Julia and Don Juan still

In sight, that several months have pass'd; we'll say "Twas in November, but I'm not so sure

About the day the era's more obscure.

CXXII.

We'll talk of that anon. — 'Tis sweet to hear
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep
The song and par of Adria's gondolier,

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; "Tis sweet to listen as the nightwinds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

CXXIII.

"Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come; Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,

Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of hirds, The lisp of children, and their carliest words.

CXXIV.

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth

Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes

From civic revelry to rural mirth ;

Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth,
Sweet is revenge especially to women,

→

Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.

CXXV.

Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet
The unexpected death of some old lady

Or gentleman of seventy years complete,

Who've made,,us youth" wait too - too long

already

For an estate, or cash, or country-seat,

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, That all the Israelites are fit to mob its

Next owner for their double-damn'd' post-obits.

CXXVI.

"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; Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

CXXVII.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love - it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall;

The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd-all's

known

And life yields nothing further to recall

Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven

Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.