Lord Byron Quotes
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Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages.
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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
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But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
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Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.
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The world is a bundle of hay,Mankind are the asses that pull,Each tugs in a different way-And the greatest of all is John Bull!
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Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
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Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
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So, we'll go no more a rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.
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Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye.
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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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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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He seemsTo have seen better days, as who has notWho has seen yesterday?
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When we two partedIn silence and tears,Half brokenhearted,To sever for years.
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So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.
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Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart!
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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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Yet in my lineaments they traceSome features of my father's face.
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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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Oh, Amos Cottle! Phœbus! what a name!
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Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!
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What say you to such a supper with such a woman?
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I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
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And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human powerWhich could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil longOf him who treasures up a wrong.