-
And thou wert lovely to the last,Extinguish'd, not decay'd;As stars that shoot along the skyShine brightest as they fall from high.
Lord Byron -
Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we'll go no more a rovingBy the light of the moon.
Lord Byron
-
But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.
Lord Byron -
I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse - borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne - misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be - let it end.
Lord Byron -
Lord of himself,-that heritage of woe!
Lord Byron -
And lovelier things have mercy shownTo every failing but their own,And every woe a tear can claimExcept an erring sister's shame.
Lord Byron -
Curiosity kills itself; and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.
Lord Byron -
You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
Lord Byron
-
O Mirth and Innocence! O milk and water! Ye happy mixtures of more happy days.
Lord Byron -
She walks the waters like a thing of life,And seems to dare the elements to strife.
Lord Byron -
The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name.
Lord Byron -
I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading about them, . . . that I think there should be a law amongst us to set our young men abroad for a term among the few allies our wars have left us.
Lord Byron -
Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
Lord Byron -
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.
Lord Byron
-
The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
Lord Byron -
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.
Lord Byron -
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
Lord Byron -
Near this spotAre deposited the Remains of oneWho possessed Beauty without Vanity,Strength without Insolence,Courage without Ferocity,And all the virtues of Man, without his Vices.This Praise, which would be unmeaning FlatteryIf inscribed over human ashes,Is but a just tribute to the Memory ofBOATSWAIN, a DOG
Lord Byron -
When we two partedIn silence and tears,Half brokenhearted,To sever for years.
Lord Byron -
Yet in my lineaments they traceSome features of my father's face.
Lord Byron