Lord Byron Quotes
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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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I cannot conceive why people will always mix up my own character and opinions with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have the right and liberty to draw.
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I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.
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Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.
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Who hath not proved how feebly words essayTo fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray? Who doth not feel, until his failing sightFaints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart, confessThe might, the majesty of loveliness?
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How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm! I thank thee, night! for thou has chased away these horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, I could not dissipate; and with the blessing of thy benign and quiet influence now will I to my couch, although to rest is almost wronging such a night as this.
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Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean.
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Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.
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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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History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.
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Man's love is of man's life a part; it is a woman's whole existence. In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love.
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Reason is so unreasonable, that few people can say they are in possession of it.
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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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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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Who track the steps of glory to the grave.
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I cannot describe to you the despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems incapable or unwilling to do anything further for himself.
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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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The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still the master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth, While man, vain insect hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
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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.
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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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Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce.
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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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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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The dew of compassion is a tear.