On March 25 1816, Lord Byron writes to Lady Byron enclosing a copy of his poem Fare Thee Well.
DEAREST BELL, I send you the first verses that ever I attempted to write upon you, and perhaps the last that I may ever write at all. This at such a moment may look like affectation, but it is not so. The language of all nations nearest to a state or nature is said to be Poetry. I know not, how this may be; but this I know. You know that the lover, the lunatic, and the, poet are “of imagination all compact.” I am afraid you have hitherto seen me only as the two first, but I would fain hope there is nothing in the last to add to any grievances you may have against the former.