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      To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history.

      The languages, especially the dead,

      The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,

      The arts, at least all such as could be said

      To be the most remote from common use,

      In all these he was much and deeply read;

      But not a page of any thing that 's loose,

      Or hints continuation of the species,

      Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious.

      His classic studies made a little puzzle,

      Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses,

      Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle,

      But never put on pantaloons or bodices;

      His reverend tutors had at times a tussle,

      And for their AEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys,

      Were forced to make an odd sort! of apology,

      For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology.

      Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him,

      Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample,

      Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,

      I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example,

      Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn

      Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample:

      But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one

      Beginning with 'Formosum Pastor Corydon.'

      Lucretius' irreligion is too strong,

      For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food;

      I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong,

      Although no doubt his real intent was good,

      For speaking out so plainly in his song,

      So much indeed as to be downright rude;

      And then what proper person can be partial

      To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial?

      Juan was taught from out the best edition,

      Expurgated by learned men, who place

      Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision,

      The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface

      Too much their modest bard by this omission,

      And pitying sore his mutilated case,

      They only add them all in an appendix,

      Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index;

      For there we have them all 'at one fell swoop,'

      Instead of being scatter'd through the Pages;

      They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop,

      To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages,

      Till some less rigid editor shall stoop

      To call them back into their separate cages,

      Instead of standing staring all together,

      Like garden gods—and not so decent either.

      The Missal too (it was the family Missal)

      Was ornamented in a sort of way

      Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all

      Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they,

      Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all,

      Could turn their optics to the text and pray,

      Is more than I know—But Don Juan's mother

      Kept this herself, and gave her son another.

      Sermons he read, and lectures he endured,

      And homilies, and lives of all the saints;

      To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured,

      He did not take such studies for restraints;

      But how faith is acquired, and then ensured,

      So well not one of the aforesaid paints

      As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions,

      Which make the reader envy his transgressions.

      This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan—

      I can't but say that his mamma was right,

      If such an education was the true one.

      She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;

      Her maids were old, and if she took a new one,

      You might be sure she was a perfect fright;

      She did this during even her husband's life—

      I recommend as much to every wife.

      Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace;

      At six a charming child, and at eleven

      With all the promise of as fine a face

      As e'er to man's maturer growth was given:

      He studied steadily, and grew apace,

      And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven,

      For half his days were pass'd at church, the other

      Between his tutors, confessor, and mother.

      At six, I said, he was a charming child,

      At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy;

      Although in infancy a little wild,

      They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy

      His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd,

      At least it seem'd so; and his mother's joy

      Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady,

      Her young philosopher was grown already.

      I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still,

      But what I say is neither here nor there:

      I knew his father well, and have some skill

      In character—but it would not be fair

      From sire to son to augur good or ill:

      He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair—

      But scandal 's my aversion—I protest

      Against all evil speaking, even in jest.

      For my part I say nothing—nothing—but

      This I will say—my reasons are my own—

      That if I had an only son to put

      To school (as God be praised that I have none),

      'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut

      Him up to learn his catechism alone,

      No—no—I 'd send him out betimes to college,

      For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge.

      For there one learns—'t is not for me to boast,

      Though I acquired—but I pass over that,

      As well as all the Greek I since have lost:

      I

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