[[548]]I wantoned with thy breakers,

.   .   .   .   .

And trusted to thy billows far and near,

And laid my hand upon thy mane,—as I do here.[548:1]

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 184.

And what is writ is writ,—

Would it were worthier!

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 185.

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been,—

A sound which makes us linger; yet—farewell!