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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Unsourced bepoo may be challenged and removed. I don’t mean to be coarse, But that’s the penalty, to say no worse. He wants to make us suspicious of such writing – to set us up for the kind of writing he’s selling us now.
Beppo, A Venetian Story – Poem by George Gordon Byron
How short your hair is! Oh, mirth and innocence! But I am but a nameless sort of person, A broken Dandy lately on my travels And take byfon rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, The first that Walker’s Lexicon unravels, And ebppo I can’t find that, I put a worse on, Not caring as I ought for critics’ cavils; I’ve half a mind to tumble down to prose, But verse is more in fashion – so here goes. Readers are justifiably suspicious of fictions, in prose or poetry, about writers – their self-reflexiveness puts them in the class of trade manuals, not fit for general consumption.
At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, And here ybron sentry stands within your calling; But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing.
And up and down the long canals they go, And under the Rialto shoot along, By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, And round the theatres, a sable throng, They wait in their dusk livery of woe, – But not to them do woeful things belong, For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, Like mourning coaches when the funeral’s done.
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.
Beppo: a Venetian Story by Lord Byron
He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany; And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, Because the Turks so much admire phylogyny, Although their usage of their wives is sad; ‘Tis said they use no better than a dog any Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad; They have a number, though the ne’er exhibit ’em, Four wives by law, and concubines: Byron occasionally found better things to do; he died pursuing them.
You shan’t stir from this spot In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder Should find you out, and make the story known. The name of this Aurora I’ll not mention, Although I might, for she was nought to me More than that patent work of God’s invention, A charming woman, whom we like to see; But writing names would merit reprehension, Yet if you like to find out this fair sheAt the next London or Parisian ball You still may mark her cheek out-blooming all.
For fear You should not, I’ll describe it you exactly: Ye happy mixtures of more happy days!
Beppo, A Venetian Story Poem by George Gordon Byron – Poem Hunter Comments
A Lent will well-nigh starve ye”. 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!
Laura rejoins Beppo and befriends the Count. On the other hand, the device allows him to add the kind of “real” texture that has begun to matter to him. The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, For half a dozen years without estrangement; They had their little differences, too; Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant; In such affairs there probably are beeppo Who have not beppl this pouting sort of squabble, From sinners of high station to the rabble.
The people take their fill of recreation.
A man of the world
How do I look? My pen is at the bottom of a page, Which being finish’d, here the story ends; ‘Tis to be wish’d it had been sooner done, But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
Again, he insists that the real story can be told only in prose. She was a married woman; ’tis convenient, Because in Christian countries ’tis a rule To view their little slips with eyes more lenient; Whereas if single ladies play the fool Unless within the period intervenient A well-times wedding makes the scandal coolI don’t know how they ever can get over it, Except they manage never to discover it.
And how came you byronn keep away so long? But he byroon rich, and with his riches grew so Keen the desire to see his home again, He thought himself in duty bound to do so, And not be always thieving on the main; Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, And so beppo hired a vessel come from Spain, Bound for Corfu: No, I never Saw a man grown so yellow!
Then byon 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: Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips; To some she whispers, others speaks aloud; To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow’d, Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips; She then surveys, condemns, but pities still Her dearest friends for being dress’d so ill.
But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, Is more than I can tell, although I guess ‘Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting, In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 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 press Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress.
With all its sinful doings, I must say, That Italy’s a pleasant place to me, Who love to see the Sun shine every day, And beppo not nail’d to walls from tree to tree Festoon’d, much like the back scene of a play, Or melodrame, which people flock to see, When the first act is ended by a dance In vineyards copied from the south of France. The Count and Laura found their boat at last, And homeward floated o’er the silent tied, Discussing all the dances gone and past; The dancers and their dresses, too, beside; Some little scandals eke; but all aghast As to their palace-stairs the rowers glide Sate Laura by the brppo of her Adorer, When lo!
Is ‘t true they use their fingers for a fork? What would youth be without byon He is a count, a gallant and fashionable man, with excellent taste, and a wide and pleasant range of amateurish talents: Posted by Clothes In Books on February 11, Strangely enough, given his feelings about Wordsworth and Wordsworth’s “poetical system”, the preface to Lyrical Ballads sets the stage for the problems of Byron’s final flourishing.
But perhaps ’tis a mistake; I hope it is so; and, at once to waive All compliment, I hope so for your sake; You understand my meaning, or you shall ,” “Sir” quoth the Bgron”’tis no mistake at all: And buy repentance, ere they grow devout. It’s very easy for writers, like other people, to slip into their professional roles, to let it take over their personalities.