Childe Harold basked him in the Noontide sun,[r]

Disporting there like any other fly;

Nor deemed before his little day was done

One blast might chill him into misery.

But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,

Worse than Adversity the Childe befell;

He felt the fulness of Satiety:

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,

Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.