Lord Byron Quotes
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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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Armenian is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.
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Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.
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The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
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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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I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.
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I'll publish right or wrong:Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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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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Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
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Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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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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Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.
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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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There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
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Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.
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Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.
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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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And lovelier things have mercy shownTo every failing but their own,And every woe a tear can claimExcept an erring sister's shame.
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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.