Lord Byron on Man
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βThe precious porcelain of human clay.β
βLord of himself;βthat heritage of woe!β
βMan! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.β
βSighing that Nature formed but one such man, And broke the dieβin moulding Sheridan.β
βWhere the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?β
βBut we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar.β