3.
For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat to-day.
4.
But since he crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo,—and—Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;
5.
'Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest:
For he was drowned, and I've the ague.[8]
May 9, 1810.
[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]
LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS.[9]
IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN:—