I have not loved the world, nor the world me, —
   But let us part fair foes; I do believe,
   Though I have found them not, that there may be
   Words which are things, — hopes which will not deceive,
   And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
   Snares for the failing: I would also deem
   O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve;
   That two, or one, are almost what they seem, —
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. . . .

Byron, from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

e·