Lord Byron Quotes
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Mont Blanc is the Monarch of mountains;They crowned him long ago,On a throne of rocks - in a robe of clouds –With a Diadem of Snow.
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Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.
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I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand; I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.
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Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice-- The weakness and the wickedness of luxury-- The negligence--the apathy--the evils Of sensual sloth--produces ten thousand tyrants, Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master, However harsh and hard in his own bearing.
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She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
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And hold up to the sun my little taper.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.
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In the desert a fountain is springing,In the wide waste there still is a tree,And a bird in the solitude singing,Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
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Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
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Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.
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A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands.
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Though the day of my Destiny's over,And the star of my Fate hath declined,Thy soft heart refused to discoverThe faults which so many could find.
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And both were young, and one was beautiful.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
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This is the age of oddities let loose.
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As soonSeek roses in December, ice in June;Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;Believe a woman or an epitaph,Or any other thing that's false, beforeYou trust in critics, who themselves are sore.
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By thy cold breast and serpent smile,By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile,By that most seeming virtuous eye,By thy shut soul's hypocrisy;By the perfection of thine artWhich pass'd for human thine own heart;By thy delight in others' pain,And by thy brotherhood of Cain,I call upon thee! and compelThyself to be thy proper Hell!
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Lovers may be and indeed generally are enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.
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Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe.
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Jack was embarrassed - never hero more,And as he knew not what to say, he swore.