Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,
   Disporting there like any other fly,
   Nor deemed before his little day was done
   One blast might chill him into misery. 
   But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
   Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
   He felt the fulness of satiety: 
   Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seemed to him more lone than eremite’s sad cell.