The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name. - Lord Byron

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain:
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,
And my frame perish even in conquering pain,
But there is that within me which shall tire
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire

I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.

Cuál es el final de la fama? No es sino llenar
una cierta porción de un papel incierto:
algunos la comparan a trepar a una colina,
cuya cumbre, como la de todas las colinas, está oculta en niebla
...
contar
con un nombre, un despreciable retrato