George Gordon Noel Byron

Kind reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here Harod lies--but where's his Epitaph?
If such read more

Kind reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here Harod lies--but where's his Epitaph?
If such you seek, try Westminister, and view
Ten thousand, just as fit for him as you.

Of all
The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show
Who car'd about the corpse? read more

Of all
The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show
Who car'd about the corpse? The funeral
Made the attraction, and the black the woe;
There throbb'd not there a thought which pierc'd the pall.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
read more

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.

A feast not profuse but elegant; more of salt [refinement] than
of expense.
[Lat., Non ampliter, sed munditer read more

A feast not profuse but elegant; more of salt [refinement] than
of expense.
[Lat., Non ampliter, sed munditer convivium; plus salis quam
sumptus.]

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.