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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I deny nothing, but doubt everything.
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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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Whate'erI may have been, or am, doth rest betweenHeaven and myself; I shall not choose a mortalTo be my mediator.
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Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.
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This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
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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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All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.
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I hate all pain, Given or received; we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.
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I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.
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My native land, good night!
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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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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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Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore.
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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 premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.
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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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When all of genius which can perish dies.
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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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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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The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
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I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
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Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates - but pages might be filled up, as vainly as before, with the sad usage of all sorts of sages, who in his life-time, each was deemed a bore! The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages.
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Who track the steps of glory to the grave.