George Gordon Noel Byron

But every fool describes, in these bright days,
His wondrous journey to some foreign court,
And spawns read more

But every fool describes, in these bright days,
His wondrous journey to some foreign court,
And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,--
Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.

There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's read more

There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

Some hoisted out the boats, and there was one
That begged Pedrillo for an absolution
Who told read more

Some hoisted out the boats, and there was one
That begged Pedrillo for an absolution
Who told him to be damn'd,--in his confusion.

By all that's good and glorious.

By all that's good and glorious.

Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease,
He makes a solitude and calls it--peace!

Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease,
He makes a solitude and calls it--peace!