Lord Byron Quotes
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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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Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
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What an antithetical mind! - tenderness, roughness - delicacy, coarseness - sentiment, sensuality - soaring and groveling, dirt and deity - all mixed up in that one compound of inspired clay!
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But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.
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A pretty woman is a welcome guest.
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And thou wert lovely to the last,Extinguish'd, not decay'd;As stars that shoot along the skyShine brightest as they fall from high.
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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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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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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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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Her great merit is finding out mine; there is nothing so amiable as discernment.
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I see before me the gladiator lie.
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BecauseHe is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow?I judge but by the fruits-and they are bitter-Which I must feed on for a fault not mine.
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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
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Jack was embarrassed - never hero more,And as he knew not what to say, he swore.
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But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.
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The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
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A man must serve his time to every tradeSave censure - critics are ready-made.
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Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
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But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.
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There was a laughing devil in his sneer.
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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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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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.