Whene’er Don Juan has a feast at home, I am forgotten as if at Rome; But he will for funerals me invite, To kill me with the annoyance quite: Well, so be it! Celeste, with thousand coy excuses, Will sing the song that set she chooses, And all about that her environ, Though like an owl, call her a Siren: Well, so be it! A hundred bees, without reposing, Work their sweet combs, with skill enclosing; Alas! for an idle drone they strive, Who soon will come to devour the hive: Well, so be it! Man to his like moves furious war, As if were not too numerous far Alone the medical squadrons straight The world itself to depopulate! Well, so be it! There are of usurers heaps in Spain, Of catchpoles, hucksterers, heaps again, And of vintners too, yet people still Are talking of robbers on the hill: Well, so be it! In vain may the poor, O Conde! try Thy door, for the dog makes sole reply; And yet to spend thou hast extollers, Over a ball two thousand dollars: Well, so be it! Enough today, my pen, this preaching; A better time we wait for teaching: If vices in vain I try to brand, And find I only write upon sand, Well, so be it! SATIRICAL LETRILLIAS.--VII. O! what a blockhead is Don Andres, So spending his gold without measure, Who ruins, perhaps, to be a Marquess, His house by the waste of his treasure! A cross on his breast to wear so prim, Much be the good it will do to him! Louis is passing the whole long night, In the dance, what a fancy to take! So foolish too, when he easier might On his warm soft bed his comfort make; To stretch as he pleased each weary limb: Much be the good it will do to him! O, how short-sighted is Avarice! Cenon exposes himself to shame, For the few pounds more he gains amiss, To lose his office and his good name; For a paltry bribe his fame to dim, Much be the good it will do to him. And Clara! what of thee shall I say? When slowly along I see thee go, As if quite lame on the public way, And on thy long broad foot bestow A short narrow shoe for us to see? Much be the good it will do to thee! Can it be possibly true, Jerome, Though yearly he sees his rents decrease, When his fat steward shall bring him home His bills, will sign them as he may please? Without any search to scarcely skim? Much be the good it will do to him! Fabio wedded with Jane, when above A sixpence they neither had, but then “He loved her so!” Long life to that love, Bravo! tomorrow if he seem fain To hang himself with vexation grim, Much be the good it will do to him.