Lord Byron Quotes
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Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.
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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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My native land, good night!
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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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As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.
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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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I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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Shrine of the mighty! can it beThat this is all remains of thee?
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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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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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The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name.
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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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I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.
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The poor dog, in life the firmest friend,The first to welcome, foremost to defend.
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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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A drop of ink may make a million think.
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They never fail who dieIn a great cause.
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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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And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
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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.
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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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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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The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.