George Gordon Noel Byron

Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.

Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted--they have torn me--and I bleed!
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The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted--they have torn me--and I bleed!
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!

Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!

But every fool describes, in these bright days,
His wondrous journey to some foreign court,
And spawns read more

But every fool describes, in these bright days,
His wondrous journey to some foreign court,
And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,--
Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow
Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth;
Her eyebrow's read more

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow
Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth;
Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow,
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,
Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow,
As if her veins ran lightning.