"Honest, honest Iago! If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."
"Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head; Next--for some gracions service unexpress'd, And from its wages only to be guess'd-- Raised from the toilette to the table,--where Her wondering betters wait behind her chair. With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd."
Immediately a tremendous clamour arose in the papers and in society against the poet who, by force of genius, had already overcome those of his opposers who might be termed the first coalition against him.
It is ever the case with men in high places who are before the eye of the public: tempests arise unexpectedly, the existence of which is not suspected by the victim till they burst over his head. They may be compared with waterspouts, and they pour down on the poet, be he a Schiller or a Dante, an Ovid or a Byron, utterly overwhelming him, rending his heart and body, tearing down his fame, overturning his reputation, uprooting his honour. These storms come from the enmities, hatred and jealousies roused by his genius; they are the hyenas that dog his steps through the darkness, who dare not attack him while he can stand firm and upright, but which spring on him directly he totters, and devour him as soon as he falls.
Byron realised he would have to give way before his enemies; so he left England, meaning to rally his forces amidst the undisturbing surroundings of foreign lands, for some means of revenging himself upon them. He left England on 25 April 1816. He had published during his six years in London, the first two cantos of _Childe Harold_, _The Giaour_, _The Bride of Abydos_, _The Siege of Corinth_, _Lara_ and _The Corsair._
He departed, and his saddest regrets were for the wife who had exiled him, and for the daughter whom he had hardly seen, and whom he was never to look upon again.
"Fare thee well! and if for ever. Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again: . . . . . . . Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow'd bed. . . . . . . . And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say 'Father!' Though his care she must forego?