And then there are such things as love divine, Bright and immaculate, unmix’d and pure, Such as the angels think so very fine, And matrons who would be no less secure, Platonic, perfect, ‘just such love as mine;’ Thus Julia said—and thought so, to be sure; And so I’d have her think, were I the man On whom her reveries celestial ran. Such love is innocent, and may exist Between young persons without any danger. A hand may first, and then a lip be kist; For my part, to such doings I’m a stranger, But hear these freedoms form the utmost list Of all o’er which such love may be a ranger: If people go beyond, ’tis quite a crime, But not my fault—I tell them all in time. Love, then, but love within its proper limits, Was Julia’s innocent determination In young Don Juan’s favour, and to him its Exertion might be useful on occasion; And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion He might be taught, by love and her together— I really don’t know what, nor Julia either. Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced In mail of proof—her purity of soul— She, for the future of her strength convinced. And that her honour was a rock, or mole, Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed With any kind of troublesome control; But whether Julia to the task was equal Is that which must be mention’d in the sequel. Her plan she deem’d both innocent and feasible, And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen Not scandal’s fangs could fix on much that ’s seizable, Or if they did so, satisfied to mean Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable— A quiet conscience makes one so serene! Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded That all the Apostles would have done as they did. And if in the mean time her husband died, But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh’d) Never could she survive that common loss; But just suppose that moment should betide, I only say suppose it—inter nos. (This should be entre nous, for Julia thought In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.) I only say suppose this supposition: Juan being then grown up to man’s estate Would fully suit a widow of condition, Even seven years hence it would not be too late; And in the interim (to pursue this vision) The mischief, after all, could not be great, For he would learn the rudiments of love, I mean the seraph way of those above. So much for Julia. Now we’ll turn to Juan. Poor little fellow! he had no idea Of his own case, and never hit the true one; In feelings quick as Ovid’s Miss Medea, He puzzled over what he found a new one, But not as yet imagined it could be Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, Which, with a little patience, might grow charming.