Lord Byron Quotes
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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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There is pleasure in the pathless woods.
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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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I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.
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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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Socrates said, our only knowledge was "To know that nothing could be known;" a pleasant Science enough, which levels to an ass Each Man of Wisdom, future, past, or present. Newton, (that Proverb of the Mind,) alas! Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, That he himself felt only "like a youth Picking up shells by the great Ocean-Truth."
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Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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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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A drop of ink may make a million think.
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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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The heart ran o'erWith silent worship of the great of old! The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still ruleOur spirits from their urns.
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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 a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.
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Yet in my lineaments they traceSome features of my father's face.
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To what gulfs A single deviation from the track Of human duties leads even those who claim The homage of mankind as their born due, And find it, till they forfeit it themselves!
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Shrine of the mighty! can it beThat this is all remains of thee?
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Be warm, be pure, be amorous, but be chaste.
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Marriage, from love, like vinegar from wine – A sad, sour sober beverage – by time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor Down to a very homely household savor.
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Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
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With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.
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As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.
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I am not now That which I have been.
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The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.