by George Gordon, Lord Byron
Romantic · Short · 8 lineslove
IN hearts like thine ne'er may I hold a place Till I renounce all sense, all shame, all grace-- That seat,--like seats, the bane of Freedom's realm, But dear to those presiding at the helm-- Is basely purchased, not with gold alone; Add Conscience, too, this bargain is your own-- 'T is thine to offer with corrupting art The _rotten borough_ of the human heart.
Public domain. Source: PoetryDB. Reproduced verbatim; see theanthology for the full collection.
Matched by documented rules, not taste: two points for every theme tag a poem shares with Answer to----'s Professions of Affection, one point for the same era, one for a similar length.
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