Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.
Lord ByronI live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.
Lord ByronYet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.
Lord ByronTis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader; Some by a place--as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
Lord Byron