Where is he, the champion and the child Of all that's great or little, wise or wild; Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones; Whose tab… - Lord Byron

Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones,
Whose table earth, whose dice were human bones.

But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away.' For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour?

I love not man the less, but nature more

Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one’s laurels
By blood or ink; ’tis sweet to put an end
To strife; ’tis 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 pluck’d — 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 filch’d for us from heaven.