Farewell! A Word That Must Be, And Hath Been,-- A Sound Which Makes Us Linge

Then farewell Horace, whom I hated so,-- Not for thy faults, but mine.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 77...
History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 108...
Let these describe the undescribable.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 53...
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...
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...