I will not ask where thou liest low, Nor gaze upon the spot; There flowers or weeds at will may grow, So I behold them not - Lord Byron

Censure no more shall brand my humble name
The child of passion and the fool of fame

As soon
Seek roses in December, ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore.

Tis strange,-but true; for truth is always strange;
Stranger than fiction: if it could be told,
How much would novels gain by the exchange!
How differently the world would men behold!