Lord Byron Quotes

A feast not profuse but elegant; more of salt [refinement] than of expense.

Love rules the camp, the court, the grove - for love is Heaven, and Heaven is love.

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.

The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.

I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.

Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.

Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes: Pique her and soothe in turn-soon Passion crowns thy hopes.

My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.

But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.

Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.

And hold up to the sun my little taper.

There is, in fact, no law or government at all; and it is wonderful how well things go on without them.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!

On the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.

I hate all pain, Given or received; we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.

The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game.

War, war is still the cry,-"war even to the knife!"

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.

Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.

The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel.

I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.

Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!

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.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

Physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem; but although we sneer - In health - when ill we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer

[Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.

Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.

Poetry should only occupy the idle.

The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!

Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.

And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.

Accursed be the city where the laws would stifle nature's!

There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.

Here's a sigh to those who love me,And a smile to those who hate;And, whatever sky's above me,Here's a heart for every fate.

Marriage, from love, like vinegar from wine-- A sad, sour sober beverage--by time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor Down to a very homely household savor.

He was a man of his times. with one virtue and a thousand crimes. (The Corsair)

'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern His brain about the action of the sky; If you think 'twas philosophy that this did, I can't help thinking puberty assisted.

But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth; The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth: Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.

In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.

My altars are the mountains and the ocean.

Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs.

But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.