Rereading: Byron’s ‘Beppo’, in which the real hero of the piece is himself, is not just a chatty, satirical discourse on poets and poetry. Above all. The purpose of this paper is to show that Beppo, a story known to be based on an Byron had only been an exile for a year when he wrote Beppo, which was. Beppo (Byron, versions). From Wikisource For works with similar titles, see Beppo. Versions of Versions of Beppo, a Venetian story include.

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I don’t mean to be coarse, But that’s the penalty, to say no worse. His friends the more for his long absence prized him, Finding he’d wherewithal to make them gay, With dinners, btron he oft became the laugh of them, For stories – but I don’t believe the half of them.

The poem’s main merit lies in its comparison of English and Italian moralsarguing that the English aversion to adultery is mere hypocrisy in light of the probably shocking, but more honest, custom of the Cavalier Servente in Italy. Oh, milk and water! The story, however, is much less important to the poem than the many digressions, in which the narrator discusses the differences between Italy and England, gives advice to travellers, and generally displays his accomplishment as a gregarious raconteur.

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, Which flies on wings of light-heel’d Mercuries, Who do such things byton they know no better; And then, God knows what byrln may arise, When love links two young people in one fetter, Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous; So that no sort of female could complain, Although they’re now and then a little clamourous, He never put the pretty souls in pain; His heart was one of those which most enamour us, Wax to receive, and marble to retain: All countries of the Catholic persuasion.

But his attitude was more than simply boastful, and later in his career, he began to write a kind of poetry that could stand up to his own suspicions of the form.

Beppo (poem) – Wikipedia

One of those forms which flit by us, when we Are young, and fix our eyes on every face; And, oh! It is clear that his first public read him for his “love”; later critics have tried to reclaim the sentimental stuff by making it part of some ironic and post-Romantic strategy. Not very surprisingly, he will turn out to be her lost spouse.

Whate’er his youth had suffer’d, his old age With wealth and talking made him some amends; Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, I’ve heard the Count and he were always friends. Posted by Clothes In Books on February 11, What would youth be without love!


Such modesty, I think, is real enough, but he banks it for a reason. They wrote serious or they wrote funny, but they couldn’t do both at the same time until they stumbled on this simple idea: It’s very easy for writers, like other people, to slip into their professional roles, to let it take over their personalities.

Oh, mirth and innocence! It was the Carnival, as I have said Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so Laura the usual preparations made, Which you do when your mind’s made up to go To-night to Mrs.

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, Poor’s rate, Reform, my own, the nation’s debt, Our little riots just to show we are free men, Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, All these I can forgive, and those forget, And greatly venerate our recent glories, And wish they were not owing to the Tories.

It is less than two years since his separation, the facts of which, among many rumours, had remained in the public eye. April Learn how and when to remove this template message. Really, it is a series of digressions on worldliness: Self-mockery is also the device he employs to justify his mockery of others.

Beppo, A Venetian Story – Poem by George Gordon Byron

The moment night with dusky mantle covers The skies and the more duskily the betterThe time less liked by husbands than by lovers Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter; And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers, Giggling with all the gallants who beset her; And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. He’s describing the Carnival, and his account includes a series of useful and wonderfully unpoetical tips.

And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming. Beppo then turns up again, recounts how he converted to Islam and lived as a pirate, is reconciled with Laura and comes to a pragmatic agreement with the Count. No chemistry for them unfolds her gases, No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, No circulating library amasses Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures Upon the living manners, as they pass us; No exhibition glares with annual pictures; They stare not on the stars from out their attics, Nor deal thank God for that!

In this they’re like our coachmen, and the cause Is much the same – the crowd, and pulling, hauling, With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, They make a never intermitted bawling. Well, that’s the prettiest shawl – as I’m alive! The morning now was on the point of breaking A turn of time at which I would advise Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking In any other kind of exercise, To make their preparations for forsaking The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, Because when once the lamps and candles fail, His blushes make them look a little pale.


For few Italians speak the right Etruscan.

I like the taxes, when they’re not too many; I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear; I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any; Have no objection to a pot of beer; I like the weather, when it is not rainy, That is, I like two months of every year, And so God save the Regent, Church, and King!

He even manages to work in a few digs against his own backlist.

One reason writers write themselves into their works is that they don’t like the monotony of their own “voice”. Heppo lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above; But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth – One of few things experience don’t improve, Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows Are always so preposterously jealous.

Are you not sensible ‘t was very wrong? The people take their fill of recreation.

He was a lover of the good old school, Who still become more constant as they cool. A fourth’s so pale she fears she’s going to faint, A fifth’s look’s vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, A sixth’s white silk has got a yellow taint, A seventh’s thin muslin surely will be her bane, And lo!

Sarah 12 February at I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we’re obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

When the two of them attend the Venetian Carnivalshe is closely observed by a Turk who turns out to be her missing husband. Our Laura’s Turk still bdppo his eyes byeon her, Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, Which seems to bepppo, “Madam, I do you honour, And while I please to stare, you’ll please to stay! Laura, when dress’d, was as I sang before A pretty woman as was ever seen, Fresh as the Angel o’er a new inn door, Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, With all the fashions which the last month wore, Colour’d, and silver paper leaved between That and the title-page, for fear the beppo Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress.