George Gordon Noel Byron

The music, and the banquet, and the wine--
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers,
The read more

The music, and the banquet, and the wine--
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers,
The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments--
The white arms and the raven hair--the braids,
And bracelets; swan-like bosoms, and the necklace,
An India in itself, yet dazzling not.

. . . all who joy would win
Must share it.--Happiness was born a twin.

. . . all who joy would win
Must share it.--Happiness was born a twin.

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast,
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs.

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast,
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs.

What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some read more

What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour:
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper,"
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

Modesty is the only sure bait when you are fishing for praise.

Modesty is the only sure bait when you are fishing for praise.