His poem on a lady who maligned him to his wife, seems to show that he did not well distinguish where the humorous ends and the ludicrous begins. He represents her-- "With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown A cheek of parchment and an eye of stone, Mark how the channels of her yellow blood Ooze at her skin, and stagnate there to mud, Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, A darker greenness of the scorpion's scale, Look on her features! and behold her mind As in a mirror of itself defined." No one suffered more than Byron from his humour being misapprehended. His letters abound with jests and _jeux d'esprit_, which were often taken seriously as admissions of an immoral character. We gladly turn to something pleasanter--to some of the few humorous pieces he wrote in a genial tone-- EPIGRAM. The world is a bundle of hay Mankind are the asses who pull Each tugs in a different way, The greatest of all is John Bull. Lines to Mr. Hodgson (afterwards Provost of Eton) written on board the packet for Lisbon, Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo's off at last, Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canvas o'er the mast, From aloft the signal's streaming Hark! the farewell gun is fired, Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired. Here's a rascal Come to task all, Prying from the custom house; Trunks unpacking, Cases cracking, Not a corner for a mouse, 'Scapes unsearched amid the racket Ere we sail on board the packet.... Now our boatmen quit the mooring, And all hands must ply the oar: Baggage from the quay is lowering, We're impatient, push from shore. "Have a care that case holds liquor-- Stop the boat--I'm sick--oh Lord!" "Sick, ma'am, d--me, you'll be sicker, Ere you've been an hour on board." Thus are screaming Men and women, Gemmen, ladies, servants, tacks; Here entangling, All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax, Such the general noise and racket Ere we reach the Lisbon packet. Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you? Stretched along the deck like logs-- Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you! Here's a rope's end for the dogs. Hobhouse muttering fearful curses As the hatchway down he rolls, Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth and d--ns our souls. In Beppo there is much gay carnival merriment and some humour--a style well suited to Italian revelry. When Laura's husband, Beppo, returns, and is seen in a new guise at a ball, we read-- "He was a Turk the colour of mahogany And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, Although the usage of their wives is sad, 'Tis said they use no better than a dog any Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad; They have a number though they ne'er exhibits 'em, Four wives by law and concubines 'ad libitum."