Lord Byron Quotes

How my soul hates This language, Which makes life itself a lie,
Flattering dust with eternity.

Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one’s laurels
By blood or ink; ’tis sweet to put an end
To strife; ’tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend;
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;
Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot
We ne’er forget, though there we are forgot.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love — it stands alone,
Like Adam’s recollection of his fall;
The tree of knowledge has been pluck’d — all’s known — And life yields nothing further to recall
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven
Fire which Prometheus filch’d for us from heaven.

Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease!
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace!

Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art — An unseen seraph, we believe in thee,
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,
But never yet hath seen, nor e’er shall see
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be;
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven,
Even with its own desiring phantasy,
And to a thought such shape and image given,
As haunts the unquench’d soul — parch’d — wearied — wrung — and riven.

It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word.

Just as I had formed a tolerable establishment my travels commenced, and on my return I find all to do over again; my former flock were all scattered; some married, not before it was needful.

Tis to create, and in creating live a being more intense, that we endow with form our fancy, gaining as we give the life we image, even as I do now.

T is pity learned virgins ever wed
With persons of no sort of education,
Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred,
Grow tired of scientific conversation:
I don't choose to say much upon this head,
I 'm a plain man, and in a single station,
But — Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,
Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all?

¿Quién no escribe para gustar a las mujeres?

But what’s reality? Who has its clue?
Philosophy? No; she too much rejects.
Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?

and what is writ, is writ,
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been

Hark! to the hurried question of despair: "Where is my child?"—an echo answers, "Where?"

I can recognize any one by the teeth, with whom I have talked. I always watch the lips and mouth: they tell what the tongue and eyes try to conceal. [at the funeral of Percy Bysshe Shelley, according to E.J. Trelawny]

If I should meet thee
After long years
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

Titan! to thee the strife was given Between the suffering and the will, Which torture where they cannot kill; And the inexorable Heaven, And the deaf tyranny of Fate, The ruling principle of Hate, Which for its pleasure doth create The things it may annihilate, Refused thee even the boon to die: The wretched gift eternity Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee, But would not to appease him tell; And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his Soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled, That in his hand the lightnings trembled.