Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Yet are Spain’s maids no race of Amazons,
   But formed for all the witching arts of love: 
   Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
   And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,
   ’Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
   Pecking the hand that hovers o’er her mate: 
   In softness as in firmness far above
   Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.