Lord Byron Quotes
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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
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Whate'erI may have been, or am, doth rest betweenHeaven and myself; I shall not choose a mortalTo be my mediator.
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Lord of himself,-that heritage of woe!
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And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled.
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Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?It doth; but actions are our epochs: mineHave made my days and nights imperishableEndless, and all alike, as sands on the shoreInnumerable atoms; and one desertBarren and cold, on which the wild waves break,But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks,Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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She was a form of life and lightThat seen, became a part of sight, And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, The morning-star of memory! Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fireWith angels shared, by Alla given, To lift from earth our low desire.
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I am not now That which I have been.
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But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.
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And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.
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'Tis pleasure, sure, to see one's name in print;A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
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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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Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.
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What's drinking?A mere pause from thinking!
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A man must serve his time to every tradeSave censure - critics are ready-made.
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In general I do not draw well with literary men -- not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.
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By all that's good and glorious.
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He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse.
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I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.
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Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
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Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires,And decorate the verse herself inspires:This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,-Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.
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For most men (till by losing rendered sager)Will back their own opinions by a wager.
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Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart –The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd – To fetters and damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom.