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Be warm, be pure, be amorous, but be chaste.
Lord Byron
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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.
Lord Byron
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The poor dog, in life the firmest friend,The first to welcome, foremost to defend.
Lord Byron
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As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.
Lord Byron
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Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain.
Lord Byron
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The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name.
Lord Byron
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What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object of view than the same mass of mob? Their arms, their dresses, their banners, and the art and artificial symmetry of their position and movements.
Lord Byron
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Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.
Lord Byron
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I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
Lord Byron
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A drop of ink may make a million think.
Lord Byron
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Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages.
Lord Byron
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As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.
Lord Byron
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A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.
Lord Byron
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I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, - and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth, - thou livest forever!
Lord Byron
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Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.
Lord Byron
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I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?
Lord Byron
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He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
Lord Byron
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With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.
Lord Byron
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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.
Lord Byron
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When all of genius which can perish dies.
Lord Byron
