Lord Byron Quotes
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For most men (till by losing rendered sager)Will back their own opinions by a wager.
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Jack was embarrassed - never hero more,And as he knew not what to say, he swore.
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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.
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Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.
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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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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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My hair is grey, but not with years,Nor grew it whiteIn a single night,As men's have grown from sudden fears.
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It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flatter; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship.
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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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Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.
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There was a laughing devil in his sneer.
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A light broke in upon my brain, -It was the carol of a bird;It ceased, and then it came again,The sweetest song ear ever heard.
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While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven,Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven,Or drawing from the no less kindled earthFreedom and peace to that which boasts his birth;While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'erShall sink while there's an echo left to air.
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Your thief looks Exactly like the rest, or rather better; 'Tis only at the bar, and in the dungeon, That wise men know your felon by his features.
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'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.
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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.
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And to his eyeThere was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him.
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He was a man of his times. with one virtue and a thousand crimes.
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Muse of the many twinkling feet, whose charms are now extending up from legs to arms.
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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.
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So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.
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For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear.
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I should be very willing to redress men wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, had not Cervantes, in that all too true tale of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.
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He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse.