George Gordon Noel Byron

Some hoisted out the boats, and there was one
That begged Pedrillo for an absolution
Who told read more

Some hoisted out the boats, and there was one
That begged Pedrillo for an absolution
Who told him to be damn'd,--in his confusion.

What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some read more

What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour:
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper,"
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

How lovely he appears! his little cheeks
In their pure incarnation, vying with
The rose leaves strewn read more

How lovely he appears! his little cheeks
In their pure incarnation, vying with
The rose leaves strewn beneath them.
And his lips, too,
How beautifully parted! No; you shall not
Kiss him; at least not now; he will wake soon--
His hour of midday rest is nearly over.

On the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.

On the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.

Of all tales 'tis the saddest--and more sad,
Because it makes us smile.

Of all tales 'tis the saddest--and more sad,
Because it makes us smile.