11.

    When my soul wings her flight,
    To the regions of night,
  And my body shall sleep on its bier;
    As ye pass by the tomb,
    Where my ashes consume,
  Oh! moisten their dust with a tear.

12.

    May no marble bestow,
    The splendour of woe,
  Which the children of Vanity rear,
    No fiction of fame,
    Shall blazon my name,
  All I ask, all I wish, is a tear.

BYRON, October 26, 1806.

* * * * *

REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J.M.B.  PIGOT, ESQ.  ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS.

1.

    Why PIGOT, complain,
    Of this damsel’s disdain,
  Why thus in despair, do you fret? 
    For months you may try,
    But believe me a sigh,
  Will never obtain a coquette.

2.

    Would you teach her to love,
    For a time seem to rove,
  At first she may frown in a pet;
    But leave her awhile,
    She shortly will smile,
  And then you may kiss your coquette.

3.

    For such are the airs,
    Of these fanciful fairs,
  They think all our homage a debt;
    But a partial neglect,
    Soon takes an effect,
  And humbles the proudest coquette.

4.

    Dissemble your pain,
    And lengthen your chain,
  Nor seem her hauteur to regret,
    If again you shall sigh,
    She no more will deny,
  That yours is the rosy coquette.

5.

    But if from false pride,
    Your pangs she deride,
  This whimsical virgin forget;
    Some other admire,
    Who will melt with your fire,
  And laugh at the little coquette.

6.

    For me, I adore,
    Some twenty or more,
  And love them most dearly, but yet,
    Though my heart they enthral,
    I’d abandon them all,
  Did they act like your blooming coquette.

7.

    No longer repine,
    But form this design,
  And break through her slight woven net;
    Away with despair,
    No longer forbear,
  To fly from the captious coquette.

8.

    Then quit her, my friend! 
    Your bosom defend,
  Ere quite with her snares you’re beset;
    Lest your deep wounded heart
    When incens’d by the smart,
  Should lead you to curse the coquette.

BYRON, October 27, 1806.

* * * * *

GRANTA, A MEDLEY.

  Oh! could LE SAGE’s[8] demon’s gift,
    Be realized at my desire,
  This night my trembling form he’d lift,
    And place it on St. Mary’s spire.