Still From The Fount Of Joy's Delicious Springs Some Bitter O'er The Flowers Its Bubbling Venom Flings.

O Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i, Stanza 15...
O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 78...
War, war is still the cry,--"war even to the knife!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i, Stanza 86...
Heaven gives its favourites--early death.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 102...
The nympholepsy of some fond despair.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 115...
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...
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i, Stanza 11...
My native land, good night!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i, Stanza 13...