But woe to the wretch who expels it from home.
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.
’Twill not soften the heart, and tho’ deaf to the ear,
’Twill make it acutely and instantly hear,
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower—
Oh! breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.
Lord Byron.
A Parody on the above, by Henry Mayhew.