George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
When health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring.
When health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring.
Endearing Waltz--to thy more melting tune
Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon.
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country-dance read more
Endearing Waltz--to thy more melting tune
Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon.
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country-dance forego
Your future claims to each fantastic toe!
Waltz--Waltz alone--both legs and arms demands,
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands.
A quiet conscience makes one so serene!
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded
That all the read more
A quiet conscience makes one so serene!
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded
That all the Apostles would have done as they did.
Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!
Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!
Kind reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here Harod lies--but where's his Epitaph?
If such read more
Kind reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here Harod lies--but where's his Epitaph?
If such you seek, try Westminister, and view
Ten thousand, just as fit for him as you.
On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet.
On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet.
Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes)
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until read more
Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes)
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,
And love than either; and there would arise,
A something in them which was not desire,
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul,
Which struggled through and chansten'd down the whole.
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand;
read more
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand;
I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject land
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
