But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder’d Upon the moral lessons of mankind: Besides, he had not seen of several hundred A lady altogether to his mind. A little ‘blase’—’tis not to be wonder’d At, that his heart had got a tougher rind: And though not vainer from his past success, No doubt his sensibilities were less. He also had been busy seeing sights— The Parliament and all the other houses; Had sat beneath the gallery at nights, To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses) The world to gaze upon those northern lights Which flash’d as far as where the musk-bull browses; He had also stood at times behind the throne— But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. He saw, however, at the closing session, That noble sight, when really free the nation, A king in constitutional possession Of such a throne as is the proudest station, Though despots know it not—till the progression Of freedom shall complete their education. ’Tis not mere splendour makes the show august To eye or heart—it is the people’s trust. There, too, he saw (whate’er he may be now) A Prince, the prince of princes at the time, With fascination in his very bow, And full of promise, as the spring of prime. Though royalty was written on his brow, He had then the grace, too, rare in every clime, Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, A finish’d gentleman from top to toe. And Juan was received, as hath been said, Into the best society: and there Occurr’d what often happens, I’m afraid, However disciplined and debonnaire:— The talent and good humour he display’d, Besides the mark’d distinction of his air, Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, Even though himself avoided the occasion. But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why, Is not to be put hastily together; And as my object is morality (Whatever people say), I don’t know whether I’ll leave a single reader’s eyelid dry, But harrow up his feelings till they wither, And hew out a huge monument of pathos, As Philip’s son proposed to do with Athos. Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction Ends. When the body of the book ’s begun, You’ll find it of a different construction From what some people say ’twill be when done: The plan at present ’s simply in concoction, I can’t oblige you, reader, to read on; That ’s your affair, not mine: a real spirit Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it. And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, Remember, reader! you have had before The worst of tempests and the best of battles That e’er were brew’d from elements or gore, Besides the most sublime of—Heaven knows what else: An usurer could scarce expect much more— But my best canto, save one on astronomy, Will turn upon ‘political economy.’