George Gordon Noel Byron

Come, lay thy head upon my breast,
And I will kiss thee into rest.

Come, lay thy head upon my breast,
And I will kiss thee into rest.

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can read more

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No,"
And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing
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Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No,"
And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing
On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow,
Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.

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.]

Who track the steps of Glory to the grave.

Who track the steps of Glory to the grave.