There Were His Young Barbarians All At Play; There Was Their Dacian Mothe

And what is writ is writ,-- Would it were worthier!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 185...
The starry Galileo with his woes.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 54...
Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 120...
History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 108...
Fills The air around with beauty.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 49...
Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 109...
O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 78...
The nympholepsy of some fond despair.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 115...
Heaven gives its favourites--early death.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 102...