Lord Byron Quotes
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Friendship is Love without his wings!
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Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel.
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The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them-She was the Universe.
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Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.
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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtleAre emblems of deeds that are done in their clime?Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep.
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In secret we metIn silence I grieve,That thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?With silence and tears.
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And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautifulThat God alone was to be seen in heaven.
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I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
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The dust we tread upon was once alive.
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I die - but first I have possessed,And come what may, I have been blessed.
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Adversity is the first path to truth.
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I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day.
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Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.
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Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
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Jack was embarrassed - never hero more,And as he knew not what to say, he swore.
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Who killed John Keats?'I,' says the Quarterly,So savage and Tartarly;''Twas one of my feats.'
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Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the mostMust mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth,The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.
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So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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She was his life,The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all.
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Send me no more reviews of any kind. - I will read no more of evil or good in that line. - Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years.
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No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.
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When all of genius which can perish dies.