George Gordon Noel Byron

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past--
For years fleet away with the wings of the read more

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past--
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove--
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth.

Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch read more

Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears.
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things.

I am the very slave of circumstance
And impulse--borne away with every breath.

I am the very slave of circumstance
And impulse--borne away with every breath.

And nearer as they came, a genial savour
Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus.
Things which read more

And nearer as they came, a genial savour
Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus.
Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour.