Lord Byron Quotes

The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.

All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.

Lord of himself; that heritage of woe!

It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts - you have no idea of the pain it gives one.

As soon seek 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 Before you trust in critics.

I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be.

Jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

A bargain is in its very essence a hostile transaction do not all men try to abate the price of all they buy? I contend that a bargain even between brethren is a declaration of war.

My beautiful, my own My only Venice-this is breath! Thy breeze Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face! Thy very winds feel native to my veins, And cool them into calmness!

Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.

One hates an author that's all author.

Let none think to fly the danger for soon or late love is his own avenger.

'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.

What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object of view than the same mass of mob? Their arms, their dresses, their banners, and the art and artificial symmetry of their position and movements.

Rough Johnson, the great moralist.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.

Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?

Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.

So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!

No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving.

Muse of the many twinkling feet, whose charms are now extending up from legs to arms.

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.

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.

A quiet conscience makes one so serene.

He who is only just is cruel; who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly?

I have always believed that all things depended upon Fortune, and nothing upon ourselves.

The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.

He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.

He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.

In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.

Her great merit is finding out mine; there is nothing so amiable as discernment.

Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.

This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.

Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life, and if Virtue is not its own reward, I don't know any other stipend annexed to it.

A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.

Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.

I would say that he has a rather limited and uncreative way of looking at the situation.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

Who then will explain the explanation?

Sweet is revenge-especially to women.

They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.

Land of lost gods and godlike men.

Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

The fact is that my wife if she had common sense would have more power over me than any other whatsoever, for my heart always alights upon the nearest perch.

The very best of vineyards is the cellar

Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.