...A little curly-headed good-for-nothing
And mischief-making monkey from his birth;
His parents ne'er agreed except in doting
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth.
Instead of quarreling, had they been but both in
Their senses, they'd have sent Young Master forth
To school, or had him soundly whipped at home,
To teach him manners for the time to come.
His father's name was Jose--Don, of course;
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse--
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again--
Than Jose, who begot our hero, who
Begot--but that's to come. Well! To renew--
His mother was a learned lady, famed
For every branch of science ever known;
In every Christian language ever named,
With virtues equalled by her wit alone.
She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,
And even the good with inward envy groan,
Finding themselves so very much exceeded,
In their own way, by everything that she did.
Her memory was a mine; she knew by heart
All Calderon, and greater part of Lope;
So that if any actor missed his part,
She could have served him for the prompter's copy.
For her, Feinagle's were an useless art,
And he himself obliged to shut up shop--he
Could never make a memory so fine as
That which adorned the brain of Donna Inez.
She knew the Latin--that is, the Lord's Prayer--
And Greek--the alphabet, I'm nearly sure.
She read some French romances here and there,
Although her mode of speaking was not pure.
For native Spanish, she had no great care;
At least her conversation was obscure.
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,
As if she thought that mystery would ennoble 'em.
Her favorite science was the mathematical;
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity.
Her wit--she sometimes tried at wit--was attic all;
Her serious sayings darkened to sublimity.
In short, she was in all things fairly what I call
A prodigy; her morning dress was dimity,
Her evening silk, and in the summer, muslin,
And other stuffs with which I won't stay puzzlin'.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
From Don Juan, by Lord Byron
Posted by Joanne Cage -- Joanne Cage at 7:28 PM
Labels: verses I know by heart
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment