A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, And mischief-making monkey from his birth; His parents ne’er agreed except in doting Upon the most unquiet imp on earth; Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in Their senses, they’d have sent young master forth To school, or had him soundly whipp’d at home, To teach him manners for the time to come.
Don Jose and the Donna Inez led For some time an unhappy sort of life, Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead; They lived respectably as man and wife, Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, And gave no outward signs of inward strife, Until at length the smother’d fire broke out, And put the business past all kind of doubt.
For Inez call’d some druggists and physicians, And tried to prove her loving lord was mad; But as he had some lucid intermissions, She next decided he was only bad; Yet when they ask’d her for her depositions, No sort of explanation could be had, Save that her duty both to man and God Required this conduct—which seem’d very odd.
She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, And open’d certain trunks of books and letters, All which might, if occasion served, be quoted; And then she had all Seville for abettors, Besides her good old grandmother (who doted); The hearers of her case became repeaters, Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, Some for amusement, others for old grudges.
And then this best and weakest woman bore With such serenity her husband’s woes, Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, Who saw their spouses kill’d, and nobly chose Never to say a word about them more— Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, And saw his agonies with such sublimity, That all the world exclaim’d, ‘What magnanimity!’
No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us, Is philosophic in our former friends; ’Tis also pleasant to be deem’d magnanimous, The more so in obtaining our own ends; And what the lawyers call a ‘malus animus’ Conduct like this by no means comprehends; Revenge in person ’s certainly no virtue, But then ’tis not my fault, if others hurt you.
And if your quarrels should rip up old stories, And help them with a lie or two additional, I’m not to blame, as you well know—no more is Any one else—they were become traditional; Besides, their resurrection aids our glories By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all: And science profits by this resurrection— Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.