If I had never lived, that which I love / Had still been living; had I never loved, / That which I love would still be beautiful — / Happy and giving… - Lord Byron

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl- songs or the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, “I told you so,”
Utter’d by friends, those prophets of the past,
Who, ’stead of saying what you now should do,
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last,
And solace your slight lapse ’gainst “bonos mores,”
With a long memorandum of old stories.

Gaze
Upon the shades of those distinguished men,
Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise,
The praise of persecution. Gaze again
On the most favoured; and amidst the blaze
Of sunset halos o’er the laurel-browed,
What can ye recognize? — A gilded cloud.

Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth,
Sweet is revenge — especially to women