“The wind breath'd soft as lover's sigh,
And, oft renew'd, seem'd oft to die,
With breathless pause between,
O who, with speech of war and woes,
Would wish to break the soft repose
Of such enchanting scene!”

“Thus at Home happy, oft fond Youth complain,
And Peace and Plenty with soft Beds disdain.
But when in Forrein War Death seals his Eys,
His Birth-place he remembers e'r he Dies.”

“O! Lover, Enjoyment on the soft body of a lotus is always risky and inconsistent because its route is always surrounded by thorns.”

“O precious is the pause between the winds that come and go,
And sweet the silence of the shores between the ebb and flow.”

“No sound doth great the still of night;
My mother land in silence lies;
Yet oft is heard an anguished moan
As Georgia in her slumber sighs. I stand alone … the mountains, shades
The slumber of my land caress.
O God! O God! when will we wake
And rise again to happiness?”

“Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touched her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffered them to die.
O'ershading sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud a golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are tinged with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow;
Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe. ”

“A wail in the wind is all I hear;
A voice of woe for a lover's loss.”

“I intend no modification of my oft-expressed personal wish that all men every where could be free.”

“Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.”

“Why – even supposing I had the skill – do you bid me compose a song dedicated to Venus the lover of Fescennine mirth, placed as I am among long-haired hordes, having to endure German speech, praising oft with wry face the song of the gluttonous Burgundian who spreads rancid butter on his hair?”
Quid me, etsi valeam, parare carmen<br/>Fescenninicolae iubes Diones<br/>inter crinigeras situm catervas<br/>et Germanica verba sustinentem,<br/>laudantem tetrico subinde vultu<br/>quod Burgundio cantat esculentus<br/>infundens acido comam butyro?