Lord Byron Quotes
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Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of the world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom.
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A sleep without dreams, after a rough day of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! The very Suicide that pays his debt at once without installments (an old way of paying debts, which creditors regret) Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, less from disgust of life than dread of death.
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Yes! Ready money is Aladdin's lamp.
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I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.
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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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I have simplified my politics into an utter detestation of all existing governments; and, as it is the shortest and most agreeable and summary feeling imaginable, the first moment of an universal republic would convert me into an advocate for single and uncontradicted despotism. The fact is, riches are power, and poverty is slavery all over the earth, and one sort of establishment is no better, nor worse, for a people than another.
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In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
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Patience! Hence-that word was madeFor brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,-I am not of thine order.
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When all of genius which can perish dies.
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A light broke in upon my brain, -It was the carol of a bird;It ceased, and then it came again,The sweetest song ear ever heard.
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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.
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Hark! to the hurried question of despair: 'Where is my child?'-an echo answers, 'Where?'
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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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Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
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I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.
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O Mirth and Innocence! O milk and water! Ye happy mixtures of more happy days.
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Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
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Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear-- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue--at once her spear and shield.
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Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease!He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
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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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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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The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.