Turk,
  If “nothing follows all this palming work”. 
  True, honest Mirza!—­you may trust my rhyme—­
  Something does follow at a fitter time;
  The breast thus publicly resign’d to man
  In private may resist him—­if it can.

  O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore,
  Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more! 
  And thou, my prince! whose sovereign taste and will
  It is to love the lovely beldames still! 
  Thou ghost of Queensbury! whose judging sprite
  Satan may spare to peep a single night,
  Pronounce—­if ever in your days of bliss
  Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this;
  To teach the young ideas how to rise,
  Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes;
  Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame,
  With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame;
  For prurient nature still will storm the breast—­
  Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest?

  But ye, who never felt a single thought,
  For what our morals are to be, or ought;
  Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap,
  Say—­would you make those beauties quite so cheap? 
  Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
  Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side,
  Where were the rapture then to clasp the form
  From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm? 
  At once love’s most endearing thought resign,
  To press the hand so press’d by none but thine;
  To gaze upon that eye which never met
  Another’s ardent look without regret;
  Approach the lip which all, without restraint,
  Come near enough—­if not to touch—­to taint;
  If such thou lovest—­love her then no more,
  Or give—­like her—­caresses to a score;
  Her mind with these is gone, and with it go
  The little left behind it to bestow.

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?  The bard forgot thy praises were his theme.  Terpsichore, forgive!—­at every ball My wife now waltzes—­and my daughters shall; My son—­(or stop—­’tis needless to inquire—­ These little accidents should ne’er transpire; Some ages hence our genealogic tree Will wear as green a bough for him as me)—­ Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, Grandsons for me—­in heirs to all his friends.

LX.  “THE DEDICATION” IN DON JUAN.

    Southey as Poet Laureate was a favourite target for satirical quips
    and cranks on the part of Byron.  This “Dedication” was not
    published until after the author’s death.

  I.

  Bob Southey!  You’re a poet—­Poet-laureate,
    And representative of all the race;
  Although ’tis true that you turn’d out a Tory
    Last—­yours has lately been a common case—­
  And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at? 
    With all the Lakers, in and out of place? 
  A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
  Like “four-and-twenty Blackbirds in a pie;