Can I, my friend, with thee condole?-- Can I conceive the woes that try men, When late repentance racks the soul Ensnared into the toils of hymen? Can I take part in such distress?-- Poor martyr,--most devoutly, "Yes!" Thou weep'st because thy spouse has flown To arms preferred before thine own;-- A faithless wife,--I grant the curse,-- And yet, my friend, it might be worse! Just hear another's tale of sorrow, And, in comparing, comfort borrow! What! dost thou think thyself undone, Because thy rights are shared with one! O, happy man--be more resigned, My wife belongs to all mankind! My wife--she's found abroad--at home; But cross the Alps and she's at Rome; Sail to the Baltic--there you'll find her; Lounge on the Boulevards--kind and kinder: In short, you've only just to drop Where'er they sell the last new tale, And, bound and lettered in the shop, You'll find my lady up for sale! She must her fair proportions render To all whose praise can glory lend her;-- Within the coach, on board the boat, Let every pedant "take a note;" Endure, for public approbation, Each critic's "close investigation," And brave--nay, court it as a flattery-- Each spectacled Philistine's battery. Just as it suits some scurvy carcase In which she hails an Aristarchus, Ready to fly with kindred souls, O'er blooming flowers or burning coals, To fame or shame, to shrine or gallows, Let him but lead--sublimely callous! A Leipsic man--(confound the wretch!) Has made her topographic sketch, A kind of map, as of a town, Each point minutely dotted down; Scarce to myself I dare to hint What this d----d fellow wants to print! Thy wife--howe'er she slight the vows-- Respects, at least, the name of spouse; But mine to regions far too high For that terrestrial name is carried; My wife's "The famous Ninon!"--I "The gentleman that Ninon married!" It galls you that you scarce are able To stake a florin at the table-- Confront the pit, or join the walk, But straight all tongues begin to talk! O that such luck could me befall, Just to be talked about at all! Behold me dwindling in my nook, Edged at her left,--and not a look! A sort of rushlight of a life, Put out by that great orb--my wife!