Lord Byron Quotes
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For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast.
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What's drinking?A mere pause from thinking!
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'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low:So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,No more through rolling clouds to soar again,View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.
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So, we'll go no more a rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.
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So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.
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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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The careful pilot of my proper woe.
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And then he danced,-all foreigners excel the serious Angels in the eloquence of pantomime;-he danced, I say, right well, with emphasis, and a'so with good sense-a thing in footing indispensable: he danced without theatrical pretence, not like a ballet-master in the van of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.
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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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The castled crag of Drachenfels, Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine.
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The Cardinal is at his wit's end - it is true that he had not far to go.
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I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil.
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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man,And broke the die, in molding Sheridan.
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Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue By female lips and eyes--that is, I mean, When both the teacher and the taught are young, As was the case, at least, where I have been; They smile so when one's right; and when one's wrong They smile still more.
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Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; A single laugh demolish'd the right arm Of his own country.
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This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
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As soon seek roses in December, ice in June, Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff Believe a woman or an epitaph Or any other thing that’s false Before you trust in critics.
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For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
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Are we aware of our obligations to a mob? It is the mob that labor in your fields and serve in your houses - that man your navy, and recruit your army - that have enabled you to defy the world, and can also defy you when neglect and calamity have driven them to despair. You may call the people a mob; but do not forget that a mob too often speaks the sentiments of the people.
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For a man to become a poet, he must be in love, or miserable.
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There is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?
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Armenian is the language to speak with God.
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Man's love is of man's life a part; it is a woman's whole existence. In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love.
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I'll publish right or wrong:Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.