Childe Harold bask'd him in the noon-tide sun,
   Disporting there like any other fly;
   Nor deem'd before his little day was done
   One blast might chill him into misery.
   But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
   Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
   He felt the fulness of satiety:
   Then loath'd he in his native land to dwell,
Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.

<i>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage</i>, George Gordon, Lord Byron: 1812-18