Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. - Lord Byron

A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover — but will sooner or later find a tyrant.

Prometheus-like from heaven she stole The fire that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll, From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: And as along her bosom steal In lengthened flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, And curled to give her neck caresses.

If I am a fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.