Lord Byron Quotes
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And hold up to the sun my little taper.
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Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world.
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Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.
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By all that's good and glorious.
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A pretty woman is a welcome guest.
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Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
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I see before me the gladiator lie.
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With just enough of learning to misquote.
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Lord of himself,-that heritage of woe!
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O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 22Survey our empire, and behold our home!These are our realms, no limit to their sway,-Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
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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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No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
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Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.
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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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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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A man must serve his time to every tradeSave censure - critics are ready-made.
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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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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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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Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze; When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another.
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.