Lord Byron Quotes
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O Mirth and Innocence! O milk and water! Ye happy mixtures of more happy days.
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What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.
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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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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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Armenian is the language to speak with God.
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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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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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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.
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Yes! Ready money is Aladdin's lamp.
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None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
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Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones,Whose table earth, whose dice were human bones.
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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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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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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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O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour.
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Oh, God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood.
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Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean.
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Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
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The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
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Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
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Be warm, be pure, be amorous, but be chaste.
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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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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.