As You Like It, Act IV. Scene I.

'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout
All countries of the Catholic persuasion,
Some weeks before Shrove-Tuesday comes about,
The people take their fill of recreation,
And buy repentance, ere they grow devout,

However high their rank, or low their station, With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking, And other things that may be had for asking.

II.

The moment night with dusky mantle covers

The skies (and the more duskily the better), The time less liked by husbands than by lovers Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers,

Giggling with all the gallants who beset her; And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, Guitars, and every other sort of strumming.

III.

And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos; All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical,

All people, as their fancies hit, may choose; But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy— Therefore take heed, ye freethinkers! I charge ye.

IV.

You'd better walk about begirt with briars,

Instead of coat and small-clothes, than put on A single stitch reflecting upon friars,

Although you swore it only was in fun; They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires Of Phlegethon with every mother's son, Nor say one mass to cool the cauldron's bubble That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double.

V.

But, saving this, you may put on whate’er

You like, by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair, Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; And even in Italy such places are,

With prettier names in softer accents spoke, For, bating Covent-Garden, I can hit on

No place that's called “Piazza" in Great Britain. W

VI.

This feast is named the Carnival, which, being
Interpreted, implies "farewell to flesh:"
So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing,
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresa
But why they usher Lent with so much glee in,
Is more than I can tell, although I guess
'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting,
In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting.

VII.

And thus they bid farewell to carnal disnes,
And solid meats, and highly-spiced ragouts,
To live for forty days on ill-dressed fishes,

Because they have no sauces to their stews,
A thing which causes many "poohs" and "pishes,*
And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse
From travellers accustom'd from a buy
To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy;

VIII.

And therefore humbly I would·recommend
"The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend,
Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross
(Or if set out beforehand, these may send
By any means least liable to loss),
Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey,
Or, by the Lord! a Lent will well nigh starve
IX.

That is to say, if your religion's Roman,
And you at Rome would do as Romans do,
According to the proverb,-although no man,
If foreign, is obliged to fast; and
and you,
If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman,

Would rather dine in sin on a ragoutDine, and be d--d! I don't mean to be coarse, But that's the penalty, to say no worse.

X.

Of all the places where the Carniva

Was most facetious in the days of yore, For dance and song, and serenade, and ball,

And masque, and mime and mystery, and more Than I have time to tell now, or at all,

Venice the bell from every city bore, And at the moment when I fix my story That sca-born city was in all her glory

XI.

They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians,
Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still,
Such as of old were copied from the Grecians,
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill;
And like so many Venuses of Titian's

(The best 's at Florence-see it, if ye will),
They look when leaning over the balcony,
Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione,
XII.

Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best;
And when you to Manfrini's palace go,
That picture (howsoever fine the rest)
Is loveliest to my mind of all the show:
It may perhaps be also to your zest,

So,

And that's the cause I rhyme upon it
'Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife,
And self; but such a woman! love in life!
XIII.

Love in full life and length, not love ideal,
No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name,
But something better still, so very real,

That the sweet, model must have been the same: A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, Wer't not impossible, besides a shame:

The face recalls some face, as 't were with pain,
You once have seen, but ne'er will see again:
XIV.

One of those forms which flit by us, when we
Are young, and fix our eyes on every face;

And, oh! the loveliness at times we see

In momentary gliding, the soft grace,

The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree
In many a nameless being we retrace,

XVIII.

Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous)
Is of a fair complexion altogether,
Not like that sooty devil of Othello's,

Which smothers women in a bed of feather,
But worthier of these much more jolly fellows,
When weary of the matrimonial tether
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers,
But takes at once another, or another's.
XIX.

Didst ever see a gondola? For fear

You should not, I'll describe it you exactly; 'Tis a long cover'd boat that's common here, Carved at the prow, prow, built lightly, but compactly Row'd by two rowers, each called "Gondolier," It glides along the water looking blackly, Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe,

Where none can make out what you say or do.

XX.

And
up and down the long canals they go,
And under the Rialto shoot along,
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow,
And round the theatres, a sable throng,
They wait in their dusk livery of woe,

But not to them do woful things belong,
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun,
Like mourning coaches when the funeral's done.
XXI,

But to my story.-'T was some years ago,
It may be thirty, forty, more or less,
The Carnival was at its height, and so
Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress;

A certain lady went to see the show,

Her real name I know not, nor can guess,

XV.

I said that like a picture by Giorgione
Venetian women were, and so they are,
Particularly seen from a balcony

(For beauty's sometimes best set off ́afar); And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni,

They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar, And, truth to say, they're mostly very pretty, And rather like to show it, more's the pity! XVI.

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs,

Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, Who do such things because they know no better; And then, God knows what mischief may arise, When love links two young people in one fetter, Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. XVII.

Because it slips into my verse with ease.

XXII.

She was not old, nor young, nor at the years Which certain people call a "certain age," Which yet the most uncertain age appears,

Because I never heard, nor could engage A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears,

To name, define by speech, or write on page, The period meant precisely by that word,Which surely is exceedingly absurd.

XXIII.

Laura was blooming still, had made the best
Of time, and time return'd the compliment,
And treated her genteelly, so that, drest,

She look'd extremely well where'er she went A pretty woman is a welcome guest,

And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent; Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. XXIV.

She was a married woman; 't is convenient,
Because in Christian countries 't is a rule
To view their little slips with eyes more lenient;
Whereas if single ladies play the fool,
(Unless within the period intervenient,

A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) I don't know how they ever can get over it. Except they manage never to discover it.

XXV.

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic,

And made some voyages, too, in other seas, And when he lay in quarantine for pratique

(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, For thence she could discern the ship with ease: He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo.2 XXVI.

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard,

Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure; Though colour'd, as it were, within a tan-yard, He was a person both of sense and vigour― A better seaman never yet did man yard:

And she, although her manners show'd no rigour, Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, So much as to be thought almost invincible.

XXVII.

But several years elapsed since they had met; Some people thought the ship was lost, and some That he had somehow blunder'd into debt,

And did not like the thoughts of steering home; And there were several offer'd any bet,

Or that he would, or that he would not come,
For most men (till by losing render'd sager)
Will back their own opinions with a wager.
XXVIII.

"Tis said that their last parting was pathetic,
As partings often are, or ought to be,
And their presentiment was quite prophetic
That they should never more each other see,
(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic,

Which I have known occur in two or three),
Wher kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee,
He left this Adriatic Ariadne.

XXIX.

And Laura waited long, and wept a little,
And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might;
She almost lost all appetite for victual,

And could not sleep with ease alone at night;
She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle
Against a daring housebreaker or sprite,
And so she thought it prudent to connect her
With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her.
XXX.

She chose, (and what is there they will not choose,
If only you will but oppose their choice?)
"Till Beppo should return from his long cruise,
And bid once more her faithful Leart rejoice,
A man some women like, and yet abuse-

A coxcomb was he by the public voice:

A count of wealth, they said, as well as quality,
And in his pleasures of great liberality.
XXXI.

And then he was a court, and then he knew
Music and dancing, Iddling, French, and Tuscan;
The last not easy, be it known to you,

For few Italians speak the right Etruscan.
He was a critic upon operas too,

And knew all nicetics of the sock and buskin;
And no Venetian audience could endure a
Sung, scene, or air, when he cried "seccatura."

XXXII.

His "bravo" was decisive, for that sound
Hush'd "academic" sigh'd in silent awe;
The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around,

For fear of some false note's detected flaw.
The "prima donna's" tuneful heart would bound,
Dreading the deep damnation of his "bah!"
Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto,
Wish'd him five fathoms under the Riaito.
XXXIII.

He patronized the improvvisatori,

Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as Italians can be, though in this their glory

Must surely yield the palm to that which France has; In short, he was a perfect cavaliero,

And to his very valet seem'd a hero.

XXXIV.

Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous;

So that no sort of female could complain, Although they're now and then a little clamorous, He never put the pretty souls in pain:

His heart was one of those which most enamour us,
Wax to receive, and marble to retain.

He was a lover of the good old school,
Who still become more constant as they cool.

XXXV.

No wonder such accomplishments should turn
A female head, however sage and steady-
With scarce a hope that Beppo could return,
In law he was almost as good as dead, he
Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern,
And she had waited several years already;
And really if a man won't let us know
That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so.
XXXVI.

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman

(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin),
"Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men ;
I can't tell who first brought the custom in,
But "Cavalier Serventes" are quite common,
And no one notices, nor cares a pin';
And we may call this (not to say the worst)
A second marriage which corrupts the first.
XXXVII.

The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo,”

But that is now grown vulgar and indecent; The Spaniards call the person a Cortejo,"3

For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recem In short it reaches from the Po to Teio,

And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sext.
But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses
Or what becomes of damage and divorces?
XXXVIII.

However, I still think, with all due deference
To the fair single part of the creation,
That married ladies should preserve the preference
In tête-à-tête or general conversation-
And this I say without peculiar reference
To England, France, or any other nation
Because they know the world, and are at ease,
And being natural, natural.y please.

XXXIX.

"T is true, your budding Miss is very charming,
But shy and awkward at first coming out,
So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming,

All giggle, blush ;-half pertness, and half pout;
And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in
What you, she, it, or they, may be about,
The nursery still lisps out in all they utter-
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.
XL.

But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase
Used in politest circles to express
This supernumerary slave, who stays

Close to the lady as a part of dress,
Her word the only law which he obeys.

His is no sinecure, as you may guess;
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call,
And carries fan, and tippet, gloves, and shawl.

be sure

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out,
Without being forced to bid my groom
My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about,
Because the skies are not the most secure;
know too that, if stopp'd upon my route,
Where the green alleys windingly allure,
Reeling with grapes red vagons choke the
choke the way-
In England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray.
XLIII.

I also like to dine on becaficas,

To see the sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow, Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as

A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, But with all heaven t' himself; that day will break as Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow That sort of farthing-candle light which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers. XLIV.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,

Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, With syllables which breathe of the sweet south, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,

Inat not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

XLVI.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise!
Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire
Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies
With all we know of heaven, or can desire,
In what he hath bequeath'd us?—in what guise,
Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre,
Would words describe thy past and present glow,
While yet Canova can create below. *

XLVII.

“England! with all thy faults I love thee still,” I said at Calais, and have not forgot it;

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;

I like the government (but that is not it);

I like the freedom of the press and quill;

I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it); I like a parliamentary debate,

Particularly when 't is not too late ;

XLVIII.

I like the taxes, when they 're not too many;
I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear;

I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any;
Have no objection to a pot of beer,

I like the weather, when it is not rainy,
That is, I like two months of every year.
And so God save the regent, church, and king!
Which means that I like all and every thing.
XLIX.

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,
Poor's rate, reform, my own, the nation's debt
Our little riots just to show we're freemen,
Our trifling bankruptcies in the gazette,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,
All these I can forgive, and those forget,
And greatly venerate our recent glories,
And wish they were not owing to the tories.
L.

But to my tale of Laura,-for I find

Digression is a sin, that by degrees Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind,

And, therefore, may the reader too displeaseThe gentle reader, who may wax unkind,

And, caring little for the author's ease, Insist on knowing what he means, a hard And hapless situation for a bard.

LI.

Oh! that I had the art of easy writing
What should be easy reading! could I scale
Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing
Those pretty poems never known to fail,
How quickly would I print (the world delighting)
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale;
And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism,
Some samples of the finest orientalism.

* Note.

In talking thus, the writer, more especially
Of women, would be understood to say,
He speaks as a spectator, not officially,
And always, reader, in a modest way;
Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall ho
Appear to have offended in this lay,

Since, as all krow, without the sex, our sonnets Would seem unfinish'd like their untrimm'd bonnets (Signed) Printer's Devil

LII.

But I am but a nameless sort of person

(A broken dandy lately on my travels),

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on,
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels,
And when I can't find that, I put a worse on,
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils;
I've half a mind to tumble down to prose,
But verse is more in fashion—so here goes.
LIII.

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement,
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do,

For half a dozen years without estrangement;
They had their little differences too;

LIX.

For a "mixt company" implies, that, save
Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more,
Whom you may bow to without looking grave,
The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore
Of public places, where they basely brave
The fashionable stare of twenty score
Of well-bred persons, called "the world; " but I,
Although I know them, really don't know why.
LX.

This is the case in England; at least was
During the dynasty of dandies, now
Perchance succeeded by some other class
Of imitated imitators :-how

In such affairs there probably are few

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble,

From sinners of high station to the rabble.

LIV.

But on the whole they were a happy pair,

As happy as unlawful love could make them; The gentleman was fond, the lady fair,

Their chains so slight, 't was not worth while to break them:

The world beheld them with indulgent air;

The pious only wish'd "the devil take them!”
He took them not; he very often waits,
And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits.

LV.

But they were young: Oh! what without our youth
Would love be? What would youth be without love?
Youth lends its joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth,.
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above;
But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth--
One of few things experience don't improve,
Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows
Are always so preposterously jealous.

LVI.

It was the Carnival, as I have said

Some six-and-thirty stanzas back, and so Laura the usual preparations made,

Which you do when your mind's made up to go To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade,

Spectator, or partaker in the show; The only difference known between the cases Is-here, we have six weeks of "varnish'd faces."

LVII.

Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before)

A pretty woman as was ever seen, Fresh as the angel o'er a new inn-door,

Or frontispiece of a new magazine, With all the fashions which the last month wore, Colour'd, and silver paper leaved between That and the title-page, for fear the press Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. LVIII.

They went to the Ridotto;-'t is a hall

Where people dance, and sup, and dance again: Its proper name, perhaps, were a mask'd ball,

But that's of no importance to my strain;
'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall,
Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain:
The company is "mixt" (the phrase I quote is,
As much as saying, they're below your notice),

The demagogues of fashion: all below
Is frail; how easily the world is lost
By love, or war, and now and then by frost!
LXI.

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor,
Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer,
Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or

A blundering, novice in his new French grammar, Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, And as for fortune-but I dare not d―n her, Because were I to ponder to infinity,

The more I should believe in her divinity.

LXII.

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet,

I cannot say that she's done much for me yet ;
She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage,

Not that I mean her bounties to disparage,
We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall seg yet
How much she'll make amends for past miscarriage.
Meantime the goddess I'll no more importune,
Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune.
LXIII.

To turn,—and to return;—the devil take it,
This story slips for ever through my fingers,
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it,

It needs must be--and so it rather lingers;
This form of verse began, I can't well break it,
But must keep time and tune like public singers:
But if I once get through my present measure,
I'll take another when I'm next at leisure.

LXIV.

They went to the Ridotto-'t is a place

To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, Just to divert my thoughts a little space,

Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrew Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face

May lurk beneath each mask, and as my sonow
Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find
Something shall leave it half an hour behind.
LXV.

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd,
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips
To some she whispers, others speaks aloud:

To some she curtsies, and to some she dips,
Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow a
Her lover brings the lemonade,-she sips;
She then surveys, condemns, but pities stiù
Her dearest friends for being drest so ill.