Lord Byron Quotes

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

But suppose it past, — suppose one of these men, as I have seen them meagre with famine, sullen with despair, careless of a life which your lordships are perhaps about to value at something less than the price of a stocking-frame ; suppose this man surrounded by those children for whom he is unable to procure bread at the hazard of his existence, about to be torn for ever from a family which he lately supported in peaceful industry, and which it is not his fault than he can no longer so support; suppose this man — and there are ten thousand such from whom you may select your victims, — dragged into court to be tried for this new offence, by this new law, — still there are two things wanting to convict and condemn him, and these are, in my opinion, twelve butchers for a jury, and a Jefferies for a judge!

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

Always laugh when you can, it is cheap medicine.

Farewell! For in that word, that fatal word,—howe'er
We promise, hope, believe,—there breathes despair.

Oh pleasure, you're indeed a pleasant thing, / Although one must be damned for you no doubt. / I make a resolution every spring / Of reformation, ere the year run out.

MANFREDO
Porque não pude contrafazer a minha natureza... porque para mandar é
preciso obedecer... lisonjear... pedir... espreitar as ocasiões... intrometer-se em toda parte... ser uma mentira viva... é assim que deve proceder quem quer ser poderoso entre os seres abjetos de que se compõe a generalidade dos homens: eu, eu não me dignei de fazer parte de um rebanho de lobos... embora como chefe. O leão é só, e eu sou como o leão.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear
That which disfigures it.

The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went — and came, and brought no day,

There is no instinct like that of the heart.

If I had never lived, that which I love had still been living; had I never loved, that which I love would still be beautiful — happy and giving happiness. What is she? What is she now? — a sufferer for my sins — a thing I dare not think upon — or nothing.

It glides along the water looking blackly,
Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe,
Where none can make out what you say or do.

Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
'Tis woman's whole existence.

It is not in the storm or in the strife
We feel benumbed and wish to be nor more,
But in the after-silence on the shore
When all is lost except a little life.