-
'Bring forth the horse!' - the horse was brought;In truth, he was a noble steed,A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,Who look'd as though the speed of thoughtWere in his limbs.
Lord Byron -
This is the age of oddities let loose.
Lord Byron
-
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past-For years fleet away with the wings of the dove- The dearest remembrance will still be the last,Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
Lord Byron -
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.
Lord Byron -
A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands.
Lord Byron -
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.
Lord Byron -
Whenever I meet with anything agreeable in this world it surprises me so much - and pleases me so much (when my passions are not interested in one way or the other) that I go on wondering for a week to come.
Lord Byron -
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.
Lord Byron
-
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man,And broke the die, in molding Sheridan.
Lord Byron -
And both were young, and one was beautiful.
Lord Byron -
He who hath bent him o'er the deadEre the first day of death is fled,-The first dark day of nothingness,The last of danger and distress,Before decay's effacing fingersHave swept the lines where beauty lingers.
Lord Byron -
A pretty woman is a welcome guest.
Lord Byron -
I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law.
Lord Byron -
My hair is grey, but not with years,Nor grew it whiteIn a single night,As men's have grown from sudden fears.
Lord Byron
-
Such is the aspect of this shore;'T is Greece, but living Greece no more!So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,We start, for soul is wanting there.
Lord Byron -
Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
Lord Byron -
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
Lord Byron -
Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
Lord Byron -
Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.
Lord Byron -
Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes; And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, But has not answer'd like the apparatus Of the Humane Society's beginning, By which men are unsuffocated gratis: What wondrous new machines have late been spinning.
Lord Byron
-
That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane.
Lord Byron -
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.
Lord Byron -
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.
Lord Byron -
But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race. There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life, Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims ere they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
Lord Byron