Lord Byron Quotes
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Whatsoever thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.
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He who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below.
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Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.
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'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give, No hollow aid; alone - man with God must strive.
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To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
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One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.
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What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great?
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It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe; you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.
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Shakespeare's name, you may depend on it, stands absurdly too high and will go down.
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Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
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America is a model of force and freedom and moderation - with all the coarseness and rudeness of its people.
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The French courage proceeds from vanity...
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There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
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Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.
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Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.
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'Tis very certain the desire of life prolongs it.
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...And these vicissitudes come best in youth; For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth: He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Has won experience which is deem'd so weighty.
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Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
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But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.
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Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.
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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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I learned to love despair.
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There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.
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But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.