One day Lady Caroline is enjoying  “a fight show” with some friends.
The first time she meets Lord Byron.

Lord Byron (George Gordon) is poor and unknown. 
Perhaps not quite so poor as he pretends, but he is willing to fight for his supper.

The bout of fighting gets off a bad start for him.

Foul play!

There are not so many rules to bare-knuckle boxing. 
Lord Byron breaks all rules: Rules are for ordinary people!

After Lord Byron won the bout of fighting, 
one of Lady Caroline’s friends offers him a drink. 

They enhance greetings. 
And the fighter introduces himself as Lord Byron.

And says: “I’m fighting for my supper!” 
Lady Caroline replies:
“I’ll buy you a supper tonight!”

That evening they have supper together.

Lord Byron doesn’t want a delicious meal: 
he wants potatoes in vinegar. 
He explains: “Tomorrow my stomach will 
have beef again and I can’t effort that!”

Lord Byron invites Caroline to have 
a look in his apartment.

And that's the beginning of the skandal!

Lady Caroline visits Lord Byron’s apartment. 
Here she discovers he is a poet.

On the mantel is a skull which Lord Byron claims is the skull of a 
Turkish bandit, who was once his friend.

Mr.William Lamb has already heard of Caroline’s contact with the poet. 
She met Canning, William’s mentor of Parliament, 
in the restaurant when she had supper with Lord Byron.

William loves Caroline so much, he forgives her.

But unfortunately Lady Caroline can’t stop her impossible, 
passionate and destroying love for Lord Byron. 
She is almost insane and obsessed by him.

When with the publication of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage Lord Byron becomes 
overnight what he has been, ever since, the Romantic personified.

I

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
A palace and a prison on each hand: 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Venice sate in state, thron'd on her hundred isles! 

II 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers: 
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she rob'd, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increas'd. 

III 

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And silent rows the songless gondolier; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear: 
Those days are gone--but Beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade--but Nature doth not die, 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! 

IV 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away-- 
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, 
For us repeopl'd were the solitary shore. 

V 

The beings of the mind are not of clay; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more belov'd existence: that which Fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 

VI 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, maybe, that which grows beneath mine eye: 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky,
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: 

VII 

I saw or dream'd of such--but let them go; 
They came like truth--and disappear'd like dreams; 
And whatsoe'er they were--are now but so: 
I could replace them if I would; still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found; 
Let these too go--for waking Reason deems 
Such overweening fantasies unsound, 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 

VIII 

I've taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with--ay, or without mankind; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be-- 
Not without cause; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 

IX 

Perhaps I lov'd it well: and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
My spirit shall resume it--if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
With my land's language: if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 

X 

My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honour'd by the nations--let it be-- 
And light the laurels on a loftier head! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me-- 
"Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted: they have torn me, and I bleed: 
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. 

XI 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; 
And annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestor'd, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, 
Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gaz'd and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 

XII 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns-- 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities, nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt: 
Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo, 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe! 

XIII 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass? 
Are they not bridled?--Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 

XIV 

In youth she was all glory, a new Tyre, 
Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
The "Planter of the Lion," which through fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 

XV 

Statues of glass--all shiver'd--the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declin'd to dust; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthralls, 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 

XVI 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 
Her voice their only ransom from afar: 
See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands--his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt--he rends his captive's chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains.

XVII 

Thus, Venice! if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 

Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations--most of all, 
Albion, to thee: the Ocean queen should not 
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall

XVIII 

I loved her from my boyhood; she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakespeare's art, 
Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part; 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.... 
 

Lord Byron invited to the ball of Lord and 
Lady Holland is the star of the evening and is being adored by all women, age isn’t important!

Suddenly Lord Byron discovers Lady Caroline and he breaks all Rules of those days. 

He turns his back on the eager young ladies and walks across the dance floor to Lady Caroline.

She runs away, half frightened and half 
confident that he will follow!