And first, in the o’erflowing of her heart, Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, She call’d her husband now and then apart, And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art To wean Don Juan from the siren’s wile; And answer’d, like a statesman or a prophet, In such guise that she could make nothing of it. Firstly, he said, ‘he never interfered In any body’s business but the king’s:’ Next, that ‘he never judged from what appear’d, Without strong reason, of those sort of things:’ Thirdly, that ‘Juan had more brain than beard, And was not to be held in leading strings;’ And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, ‘That good but rarely came from good advice.’ And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth— At least as far as bienséance allows: That time would temper Juan’s faults of youth; That young men rarely made monastic vows; That opposition only more attaches— But here a messenger brought in despatches: And being of the council call’d ‘the Privy,’ Lord Henry walk’d into his cabinet, To furnish matter for some future Livy To tell how he reduced the nation’s debt; And if their full contents I do not give ye, It is because I do not know them yet; But I shall add them in a brief appendix, To come between mine epic and its index. But ere he went, he added a slight hint, Another gentle common-place or two, Such as are coin’d in conversation’s mint, And pass, for want of better, though not new: Then broke his packet, to see what was in ’t, And having casually glanced it through, Retired; and, as went out, calmly kiss’d her, Less like a young wife than an aged sister. He was a cold, good, honourable man, Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing; A goodly spirit for a state divan, A figure fit to walk before a king; Tall, stately, form’d to lead the courtly van On birthdays, glorious with a star and string; The very model of a chamberlain— And such I mean to make him when I reign. But there was something wanting on the whole— I don’t know what, and therefore cannot tell— Which pretty women—the sweet souls!—call soul. Certes it was not body; he was well Proportion’d, as a poplar or a pole, A handsome man, that human miracle; And in each circumstance of love or war Had still preserved his perpendicular. Still there was something wanting, as I’ve said— That undefinable ‘Je ne sçais quoi,’ Which, for what I know, may of yore have led To Homer’s Iliad, since it drew to Troy The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan’s bed; Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy Was much inferior to King Menelaus:— But thus it is some women will betray us.