LXXVII.

Aurora sat with that indifference

Which piques a preux chevalier —as it ought:

Of all offences that's the worst offence,

Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, Was not exactly pleased to be so caught; Like a good ship entangled among ice, And after so much excellent advice.

LXXVIII.

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied,
Or something which was nothing, as urbanity
Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside,
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity.
The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride?
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity?
Heaven knows! But Adeline's malicious eyes
Sparkled with her successful prophecies,

LXXIX.

And look'd as much as if to say, " I said it ;"
A kind of triumph I'll not recommend,
Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it,
Both in the case of lover and of friend,
Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit,
To bring what was a jest to a serious end:
For all men prophesy what is or was,

And hate those who won't let them come to pass.

LXXX.

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions,

Slight but select, and just enough to express, To females of perspicuous comprehensions,

That he would rather make them more than less. Aurora at the last (so history mentions,

Though probably much less a fact than guess) So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.

LXXXI.

From answering she began to question: this
With her was rare; and Adeline, who as yet
Thought her predictions went not much amiss,
Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette
So very difficult, they say, it is

To keep extremes from meeting, when once set In motion; but she here too much refinedAurora's spirit was not of that kind.

LXXXII.

But Juan had a sort of winning way,
A proud humility, if such there be,

Which show'd such deference to what females say,
As if each charming word were a decree.
His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay,

And taught him when to be reserved or free:

He had the art of drawing people out,
Without their seeing what he was about.

LXXXIII.

Aurora, who in her indifference

Confounded him in common with the crowd
Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense
Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud-
Commenced (from such slight things will great
commence)

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud
Rather by deference than compliment,
And wins even by a delicate dissent.

LXXXIV.

that point was carried

And then he had good looks;
Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve
To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married—
A case which to the juries we may leave,
Since with digressions we too long have tarried.

Now though we know of old that looks deceive, And always have done, somehow these good looks Make more impression than the best of books.

LXXXV.

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces,
Was very young, although so very sage,
Admiring more Minerva than the Graces,
Especially upon a printed page.

But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces,
Has not the natural stays of strict old age;
And Socrates, that model of all duty,

Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty.

LXXXVI.

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic,
But innocently so, as Socrates;

And really, if the sage sublime and Attic

At seventy years had phantasies like these, Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic

Has shown, I know not why they should displease In virgins-always in a modest way,

Observe; for that with me's a " sine quâ.”(1)

LXXXVII.

Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke
(See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd
Opinions two, which at first sight may look
Twin opposites, the second is the best.
Perhaps I have a third too, in a nook,

Or none at all-which seems a sorry jest:
But if a writer should be quite consistent,
How could he possibly show things existent?

LXXXVIII.

If people contradict themselves, can I

Help contradicting them, and every body,
Even my veracious self?—But that's a lie;
I never did so, never will-how should I?
He who doubts all things nothing can deny :
Truth's fountains may be clear-her streams are
muddy,

And cut through such canals of contradiction,
That she must often navigate o'er fiction.

(1) Subauditur "non ; " omitted for the sake of euphony.

LXXXIX.

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable,

Are false, but may be render'd also true By those who sow them in a land that's arable. 'Tis wonderful what fable will not do! 'Tis said it makes reality more bearable: But what's reality? Who has its clue? Philosophy? No: she too much rejects. Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?

XC.

Some millions must be wrong, that's pretty clear;
Perhaps it may turn out that all were right.
God help us! Since we have need on our career
To keep our holy beacons always bright,
'Tis time that some new prophet should appear,
Or old indulge man with a second sight.
Opinions wear out in some thousand years,
Without a small refreshment from the spheres.

XCI,

But here again, why will I thus entangle
Myself with metaphysics? None can hate
So much as I do any kind of wrangle;
And yet, such is my folly, or my fate,
I always knock my head against some angle
About the present, past, or future state:
Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian,
For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian.