Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are <i>least</i> alone. - Lord Byron

In solitude, where we are least alone.

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.

T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end
To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend:
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;
Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate Love — it stands alone,
Like Adam's recollection of his fall;
The Tree of Knowledge has been plucked — all 's known — And Life yields nothing further to recall
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven
Fire which Prometheus filched for us from Heaven.

What say you to such a supper with such a woman?