George Gordon Noel Byron

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth.

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No,"
And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing
read more

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.

Men freely believe that which they wish to be the truth.

Men freely believe that which they wish to be the truth.

Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch read more

Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears.
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things.

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler,
And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler,
And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.