Lord Byron Quotes
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A sleep without dreams, after a rough day of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! The very Suicide that pays his debt at once without installments (an old way of paying debts, which creditors regret) Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, less from disgust of life than dread of death.
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I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.
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The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name.
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The poor dog, in life the firmest friend,The first to welcome, foremost to defend.
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Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.
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Curiosity kills itself; and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.
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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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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.
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I have simplified my politics into an utter detestation of all existing governments; and, as it is the shortest and most agreeable and summary feeling imaginable, the first moment of an universal republic would convert me into an advocate for single and uncontradicted despotism. The fact is, riches are power, and poverty is slavery all over the earth, and one sort of establishment is no better, nor worse, for a people than another.
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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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Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
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As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.
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Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.
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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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My native land, good night!
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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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Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were; First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away--Is this the whole?
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Despair and Genius are too oft connected.
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And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
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Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
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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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O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
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O Mirth and Innocence! O milk and water! Ye happy mixtures of more happy days.