Related:

• He rush'd into the field, and foremost fighting fell.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iii, Stanza 23...
• And what is writ is writ,-- Would it were worthier!
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 185...
• Fills The air around with beauty.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 49...
• Heaven gives its favourites--early death.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 102...
• I see before me the gladiator lie.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 140...
• O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 78...
• The Ariosto of the North.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 40...
• The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 79...
• The nympholepsy of some fond despair.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 115...