George Gordon Noel Byron

There were his young barbarians all at play
There was their Dacian mother--he, their sire,
Butcher'd to read more

There were his young barbarians all at play
There was their Dacian mother--he, their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday.

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, read more

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.

The devil's in the moon for mischief; they
Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon
Their read more

The devil's in the moon for mischief; they
Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon
Their nomenclature; there is not a day,
The longest, not the twenty-first of June,
Sees half the business in a wicked way,
On which three single hours of moonshine smile--
And then she looks so modest all the while!

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded.
That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded.
That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.