Lord Byron Quotes
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Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
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I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour; my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England; if false, England was unfit for me.
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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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Not to admire, is all the art I know To make men happy, or to keep them so. Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago; And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation; but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?
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The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
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A man must serve his time to every tradeSave censure - critics are ready-made.
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'Tis pleasure, sure, to see one's name in print;A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
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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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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man,And broke the die, in molding Sheridan.
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For a man to become a poet, he must be in love, or miserable.
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This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
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The Cardinal is at his wit's end - it is true that he had not far to go.
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The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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Farewell! if ever fondest prayerFor other's weal avail'd on high,Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.
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What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.
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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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He left a corsair's name to other times,Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.
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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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I see before me the gladiator lie.