Lord Byron Quotes
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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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 Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.
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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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For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.
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The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!
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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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Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.
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The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!
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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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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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If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver.
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He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
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Hark! to the hurried question of despair: 'Where is my child?'-an echo answers, 'Where?'
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Old man! ’tis not so difficult to die.
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I awoke one day to find myself famous.
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For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.
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Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week.
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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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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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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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Oh, God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood.