CCXII.

'Tis the perception of the beautiful,

A fine extension of the faculties,

Platonic, universal, wonderful,

Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull;

In short, it is the use of our own eyes, With one or two small senses added, just To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust.

CCXIII.

Yet 'tis a painful feeling, and unwilling, For surely if we always could perceive In the same object graces quite as killing As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 'Twould save us many a heart-achę, many a shilling, (For we must get them any how, or grieve,) Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever,

How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver!

Q

CCXIV.

The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,
But changes night and day too, like the sky;
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven,
And darkness and destruction as on high:
But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven,

Its storms expire in water-drops; the

eye

Pours forth at last the heart's-blood turn'd to tears,

Which make the English climate of our years.

CCXV.

The liver is the lazaret of bile,

But very rarely executes its function,

For the first passion stays there such a while,
That all the rest creep in and form a junction,
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction,
So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail,

Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd "central.”

CCXVI.

In the mean time, without proceeding more
In this anatomy, I've finish'd now
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,
That being about the number I'll allow
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four;

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead

For them and theirs with all who deign to read.

END OF CANTO II.