George Gordon Noel Byron

In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.

In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
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The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need
Of aid from them--she was the Universe.

That each pull'd different ways with many an oath,
"Arcades ambo," id est--blackguards both.

That each pull'd different ways with many an oath,
"Arcades ambo," id est--blackguards both.

Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?
Gone--glimmering read more

Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?
Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were;
First in the race that led to glory's goal,
They won, and pass'd away--Is this the whole?

The best of remedies is a beefsteak
Against sea-sickness; try it, sir, before
You sneer, and I read more

The best of remedies is a beefsteak
Against sea-sickness; try it, sir, before
You sneer, and I assure you this is true,
For I have found it answer--so may you.