Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto III <excerpt>
by George Gordon Byron
Yet well thy soul hath brook’d the turning tide
With that untaught innate philosophy,
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled
With a sedate and all-enduring eye;—
When Fortune fled her spoil’d and favourite child,
He stood unbow’d beneath the ills upon him piled.