George Gordon Noel Byron

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,
Not for thy faults, but mine.

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,
Not for thy faults, but mine.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madded to crime?

And one by one in turn, some grand mistake
Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

And one by one in turn, some grand mistake
Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom.

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,
And there hath been thy bane.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,
And there hath been thy bane.