Maidens, Like Moths, Are Ever Caught By Glare, And Mammon Wins His Way Where Seraphs Might Despair.

Might shake the saintship of an anchorite.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i, Stanza 11...
The nympholepsy of some fond despair.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 115...
In solitude, where we are least alone.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iii, Stanza 90...
The starry Galileo with his woes.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 54...
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i, Stanza 20...
I see before me the gladiator lie.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 140...
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i, Stanza 10...
My native land, good night!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i, Stanza 13...
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 1...