Byronism

As nature will have it, there is a vague possibility that the above stone (photographed with a Kodak Brownie, 'you push the button, we do the rest') originally came from the Grotta di Byron, Portovenere, Ligura, Italy.
So named in Lord Byron's honour, 'Byron's cave' was one of the poet's favourite haunts and sources of inspiration for his world renowned literary works. He would often meditate there, most likely about women, if not men as well, and how they, certainly the women, tiresomely intruded on his life and complicated things in general. In fact 'Byron's cave' may well have been a secluded refuge for him 'to get away from it all,' at least until his Italian admirers divulged the whereabouts of the secret Byronic haven.

This stone should interest the many steadfast followers of Lord Byron. They would doubtlessly include grateful Greek millionaires (who are aware of Byron's heroic stand on behalf of the Greeks against the Ottomans, to help secure the formers' independence). 
I shall keep it in a safe place until I receive the most appropriate offer from the luckiest of the many ardent collectors of Byron rubbish.

  So We'll Go No More A-Wooing 

                                      

So we'll go no more a-wooing
At all hours of the night,
  Though the pleasure in so doing  
On shady lovelessness casts light

For the glaive is often heavy
With firm designs of its own,
Its duty is more its levy
Than to rustily bow down.

 Though the night is made for snoring,
To rest the weary warrior's brow,
One can always go a-warring
At any time, and even now.
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  Stanzas Written on the Road between Romford and Bow

Vir prudens non contra ventum mingit (unless he's a poet*).
Quidquid Latine dictum sit altum videtur...

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story,
The days of our youth are vague and desultory;
  Scotch eggs and best bitter were worth what they cost then
For he who for a quid was never quite lost then.

 But what were hats and half-crowns to a man who has plenty,
          Who drives down Park Lane in his brand new black Bentley?         
Then off for the weekend with his new floozy treasure!
What care I for such ease that can only give pleasure?

Oh Fame! - had I ever believed in thy power,
 I would have felt as a Lord high aloft in his tower.
               False modesty scores best with beauteous women               
Seduced by the charm of a portentous omen.

There I succeeded, and there still chiefly do,
If time has less bearing on all that is true.
Should there then be a spark of truth in this poem,
Tempus edax rerum would be nihil ad rem.
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With apologies to George, Gordon Lord Byron

So, We'll Go No More A-Roving

Stanzas written on the Road between Florence and Pisa 

*The fake-antique Latin citation about the imprudence of pissing against the wind, could be suitable as a metaphor regarding poets who through recklessness, urgent needs, desires or forces of circumstances, find themselves inundated with unanticipated problems they could well have done without. Byron seems to have qualified as a good example, despite his becoming the national poet and hero of Greece.
It's said that his heart- literally- remains in Missolonghi. His remains (less the heart) were destined to be buried in Westminster Abbey, but this was refused on the grounds of his 'immoral conduct.'
After lying in state for two days in London, and attracting enormous crowds, he was finally buried at St. Mary's Church in Hucknall, Nottinghamshire.  

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Text, parodies and image © Mirino, Sources include Wikipedia, with thanks. June, 2012