Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   All have their fooleries; not alike are thine,
   Fair Cadiz, rising o’er the dark blue sea! 
   Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine,
   Thy saint adorers count the rosary: 
   Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free
   (Well do I ween the only virgin there)
   From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be;
   Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.