George Gordon Noel Byron

A thirst for gold,
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm
The meanest hearts.

A thirst for gold,
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm
The meanest hearts.

As the lone Angler, patient man,
At Mewry-Water, or the Banne,
Leaves off, against his placid wish,
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As the lone Angler, patient man,
At Mewry-Water, or the Banne,
Leaves off, against his placid wish,
Impaling worms to torture fish.

Father! no prophet's laws I seek,--
Thy laws in Nature's works appear;--
I own myself corrupt and read more

Father! no prophet's laws I seek,--
Thy laws in Nature's works appear;--
I own myself corrupt and weak,
Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear.

For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge read more

For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.