Imported Poems

Dear Mystery,

You call yourself a pick-up artist? Hah. I laugh at your wooful, rueful suggestions, your impotent attempts to seduce the loose ladies. Let me show you how it's really done.

Love,
Lord Bryon

PS: Let's get together sometime and go over Greek Pederasty - er, Poetry, I mean.

STANZA'S WRITTEN UPON HEARING OF SOME MTV BORE PANDERING POOR ADVICE TO LICENTIOUS LOSERS. -- Lord Byron


Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze,
One (that would be me) who, 'twas said, still sighed to all he saw,
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze,
Which others hailed with real or mimic awe,
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law:
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims:
And much she marvelled that a youth so raw
Nor felt, nor feigned at least, the oft-told flames,
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames.

Little knew she that seeming marble heart,
Now masked by silence or withheld by pride,
Was not unskillful in the spoiler's art,
And spread its snares licentious far and wide;
Nor from the base pursuit had turned aside,
As long as aught was worthy to pursue:
But Harold on such arts no more relied;
And had he doted on those eyes so blue,
Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew.

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast,
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs;
What careth she for hearts when once possessed?
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes,
But not too humbly, or she will despise
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes;
Disguise e'en tenderness, if thou art wise;
Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes;
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes.