![]() ![]() For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sighed to many, though he loved but one, And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his. ![]() But long ere scarce a third of his passed by, Worse than adversity the Childe befell He felt the fulness of satiety: Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seemed to him more lone than eremite 's sad cell. Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun, Disporting there like any other fly, Nor deemed before his little day was done One blast might chill him into misery. Childe Harold was he hight:-but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day: But one sad losel soils a name for aye, However mighty in the olden time Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay, Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, Sore given to revel and ungodly glee Few earthly things found favour in his sight Save concubines and carnal companie, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight But spent his days in riot most uncouth, And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. ![]()
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