Many are poets, but without the name; For what is Poesy but to create From overfeeling Good or Ill; and aim At an external life beyond our fate, And … - Lord Byron

This was an easy matter with a man Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard; And even the wisest, do the best they can, Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, That you might 'brain them with their lady's fan;' And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, And why and wherefore no one understands.

She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth,
And of the folly of all prudish fears,
Victorious virtue, and domestic truth,
And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years:
[...]
When people say, "I've told you fifty times,"
They mean to scold, and very often do:
When poets say, "I've written fifty rhymes,"
They make you dread that they'll recite them too;
In gangs of fifty thieves commit their crimes:
At fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true,
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,
A good deal may be bought for fifty louis.

We'll Go No More A-roving

So, we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart still be as loving,
And the moon still be as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.