Lord Byron

The insect-queen of eastern spring, / O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer / Invites the young pursuer near, / And leads him on from flower to flower / A weary chase and wasted hour.

Nelson was once Britannia’s god of war, / And still should be so, but the tide is turn’d; / There’s no more to be said of Trafalgar, / ’Tis with our hero quietly inurn’d; At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, / Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, / And then his only garment quite gave way; / He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there, / I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. But now at thirty years my hair is gray— / (I wonder what it will be like at forty? / I thought of a peruke the other day) […]