Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lucietta. A Fragment
Lucietta, my deary,
That fairest of faces!
Is made up of kisses;
But, in love, oft the case is
Even stranger than this is—
There's another, that's slyer,
Who touches me nigher,—
A Witch, an intriguer,
Whose manner and figure
Now piques me, excites me,
Torments and delights me—
Cætera desunt.