George Gordon Noel Byron

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.

I have not loved the world, not the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
read more

I have not loved the world, not the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee.

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
No hollow read more

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive.

In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.

In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth.

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth.