George Gordon Byron: Beppo ( words) In Beppo the garrulous narrator tells the story of how Beppo (short for Guiseppe) disappears on a sea voyage. Beppo (Byron, versions). From Wikisource For works with similar titles, see Beppo. Versions of Versions of Beppo, a Venetian story include. observations: Byron’s poem is set in Venice at Carnevale: the season of joy and pleasure preceding Lent. Heroine Laura thinks she is widowed.
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Beppo marks Byron’s first attempt at writing using the Italian ottava rima metrewhich emphasized satiric digression. But on the whole, they were a happy pair, As happy as unlawful love could make them; The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, Their chains so slight, ’twas not worth while to break them; The world beheld them with indulgent air; The pious only wish’d “the devil take them!
Beppo (Byron, versions)
The poem manifests a number of typical Byronic qualities, like the digressive structure and the use of satirical jabs at targets familiar to Byron’s readership, such as literate women and as well as other poets including Robert Vyronwho appears as “Botherby”.
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days!
Victorina 16 July at Which means that I like all and everything. He is a count, a gallant and fashionable man, with excellent taste, and a wide and pleasant range of amateurish talents: They’ve pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, Black-eyes, arch’d brows, and sweet expressions still; Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, In ancient arts by moderns mimick’d ill; And like so many Venuses of Titian’s The best’s at Florence – see it, if ye willThey look when leaning over the balcony, Or stepp’d from out a picture by Giorgione.
The poem, however, is much more than a discourse on poets byyron poetry – that is only its undertone.
Louis MacNeice once wrote: Why Byrkn thank God for that is no great matter, I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, I’ll keep them for my life to come in prose; I fear I have a little turn for satire, And yet methinks the older that one grows Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter Leaves us no doubly serious shortly after.
The moment night with dusky mantle covers Bepoo 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, beplo, humming, Guitars, and every other sort of strumming.
I like the women too forgive my follyFrom the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze, And large black eyes that flash on you a volley Of rays that say a thousand things at once, To the high dama’s brow, more melancholy, But clear, bgron with a wild and liquid glance, Byrpn on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and byeon as her skies.
How quickly would I print the world delighting A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale; And sell you, mix’d with western sentimentalism, Some samples of the finest Orientalism!
Laura was blooming still, had made the best Of time, and time return’d the compliment, She look’d extremely well where’er she went; A pretty woman is a welcome guest, And Laura’s brow a frown had rarely bent; Indeed, vyron shone all smiles, and seem’d to flatter Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her.
They went to the Ridotto; – ’tis a hall Where people dance, and sup, and dance again; Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, But that’s of no importance to my strain; ‘Tis on a smaller scale like our Vauxhall, Excepting that it can’t be spoilt by rain; The company is “mix’d” the phrase I quote is As much as saying they’re below your notice.
The story itself is scant but dramatic enough. I said that like veppo picture by Giorgione Venetian women were, and so they areParticularly seen from a balcony For beauty’s sometimes best set off afarAnd there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, They peep from out the blind, or o’er the bar; And truth to say, they’re mostly very pretty, And rather like to show it, more’s the pity! Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos And buy repentance, ere they grow devout. 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 because they know no better; And then, God knows what mischief may arise, When love links two young people in one fetter, Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads.
Byron, here, is imagining himself as a non-poet, and the genius of the move lies in the fact that he imagines himself more or less the same, only unsuccessful – and, crucially, a little more inclined to prose. His is no sinecure, as you may guess; Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. Please help improve this article by adding citations to reliable sources.
I had forgot – Pray do’nt you think the weather here is colder? One reason writers write themselves into their works is that they don’t like the monotony of their own “voice”.
The real hero of the piece is the poet himself Byron once criticised Wordsworth for making “the bard the hero of the story”who digresses chattily from stanza to stanza on a variety of topics, including his own life.
A Lent will well-nigh starve ye”.
Beppo, A Venetian Story Poem by George Gordon Byron – Poem Hunter Comments
Retrieved from ” https: But saving this, you may put on whate’er You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak. How short your hair is! First published 30 June [https: You’ll give it me? Really, it is a series of digressions on worldliness: Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, Others were leveling their looks at her; She heard the men’s half-whisper’d mode of praising, And, till ’twas done, determined not to stir; The women only thought it quite amazing That, at her time of life, so many were Admirers still, – but men are so debased, Those brazen creatures always suit their taste.
Her husband sail’d upon the Adriatic, And made some voyages, too, in other seas, And when he lay in quarantine for bdppo A forty days’ precaution ‘gainst diseaseHis wife would mount, at times, heppo highest attic, For thence she could discern the ship with ease; He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, His name Giuseppe, call’d more briefly, Beppo. With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking. To turn, – and return; – the byyron take it! They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, They scarcely can behold their male relations, So that their moments do not pass so gaily As is supposed the case with northern nations; Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely; And as the Turks abhor long conversations, Their days are either pass’d in doing nothing, Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing.
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Beppo (Byron, versions) – Wikisource, the free online library
And then he was A Count, and then he knew Music, and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscan; The last not easy, be it known to you. Such accomplishments make for an amiable life; they make him amiable, too: Byron’s Life Byron’s Works.
She was a married woman; ’tis convenient, Because in Christian countries ’tis a rule To byroj 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.
Laura rejoins Beppo and befriends the Count. His career trajectory – I’m aware of the strangeness of the comparison – looks a little like Woody Allen’s.
And therefore humbly I would recommend “The curious in fish-sauce, “before they cross The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross Or if set out beforehand, these may send By any means least liable to loss Ketchup, Bepo, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, Or by the Lord!
The moment night with dusky mantle covers.
Giggling with all the gallants who beset her. 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.