LXIV. Happy the nations of the moral north! Where all is virtue, and the winter season Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth; ('Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to reason); Where juries cast up what a wife is worth By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on The lover, who must pay a handsome price, Because it is a marketable vice. LXV. Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, A man well looking for his years, and who Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, LXVI. Julia was—yet I never could see why— LXVII. And that still keeping up the old connexion, Which time had lately render'd much more chaste, She took his lady also in affection, And certainly this course was much the best: She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, And complimented Don Alfonso's taste; LXVIII. I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown; Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, Indifferent from the first, or callous grown: I'm really puzzled what to think or say, LXIX. Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three, These few short years make wondrous alterations, Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. LXX. Whate'er the cause might be, they had become Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, And much embarrassment in either eye; There surely will be little doubt with some But as for Juan, he had no more notion LXXI. Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, And tremulously gentle her small hand A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. LXXII. And if she met him, though she smiled no more, She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store She must not own, but cherish'd more the while, For that compression in its burning core; LXXIII. But passion most, dissembles yet betrays Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, And in whatever aspect it arrays Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy ; Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, |