Lord Byron Quotes
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And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
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Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
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Who track the steps of glory to the grave.
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'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.
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Near this spotAre deposited the Remains of oneWho possessed Beauty without Vanity,Strength without Insolence,Courage without Ferocity,And all the virtues of Man, without his Vices.This Praise, which would be unmeaning FlatteryIf inscribed over human ashes,Is but a just tribute to the Memory ofBOATSWAIN, a DOG
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And lovelier things have mercy shownTo every failing but their own,And every woe a tear can claimExcept an erring sister's shame.
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In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.
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Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
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He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
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The reason that adulation is not displeasing is that, though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to induce people to lie.
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Hark! to the hurried question of despair: 'Where is my child?'-an echo answers, 'Where?'
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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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Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?
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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?
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.
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And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled.
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Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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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 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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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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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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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.
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Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;The days of our youth are the days of our glory;And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twentyAre worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.