‘Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,
And all the fault of that indecent sun,
Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,
But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,
That howsoever people fast and pray
The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone…
Let us have wine and woman, mirth and laughter,
Sermons and soda water the day after.
(Canto II) (Byron, you party animal)
The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,
But changes night and day too, like the sky.
Now o’er it clouds and thunder must be driven,
And darkness and destruction as on high,
But when it hath been scorched and pierced and riven,
Its storms expire in water drops. The eye
Pours forth at least the heart’s blood turned to tears,
Which make the English climate of our years.
‘Tis melancholy and a fearful sign
Of human frailty, folly, also crime,
That love and marriage rarely can combine,…
(Canto II) (my mom always tells me this; not sure if I agree)