Lord Byron Quotes
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She walks the waters like a thing of life,And seems to dare the elements to strife.
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Hark! to the hurried question of despair: 'Where is my child?'-an echo answers, 'Where?'
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We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
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The world is a bundle of hay,Mankind are the asses that pull,Each tugs in a different way-And the greatest of all is John Bull!
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It is when we think we lead that we are most led.
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Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life, and if Virtue is not its own reward, I don't know any other stipend annexed to it.
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I deny nothing, but doubt everything.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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Dreading that climax of all human ills the inflammation of his weekly bills.
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Religion-freedom-vengeance-what you will, A word's enough to raise mankind to kill.
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Eternity forbids thee to forget.
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A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
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If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
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If a man proves too clearly and convincingly to himself...that a tiger is an optical illusion--well, he will find out he is wrong. The tiger will himself intervene in the discussion, in a manner which will be in every sense conclusive.
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From the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with light his blended colors glow. . . . . The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring.
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Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.
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I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen.
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Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
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Old man! ’tis not so difficult to die.
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If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.
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For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.
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A material resurrection seems strange and even absurd except for purposes of punishment, and all punishment which is to revenge rather than correct must be morally wrong, and when the World is at an end, what moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures answer?
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I awoke one day to find myself famous.
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Like other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then talky, then argumentative, then disputatious, then unintelligible, then altogether, then inarticulate, and then drunk. When we had reached the last step of this glorious ladder, it was difficult to get down again without stumbling.