Lord Byron Quotes

I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.

Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.

Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.

Happiness was born a twin.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,
With syllables which breathe of the sweet South,
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,
That not a single accent seems uncouth,
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural,
Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

A drop of ink may make a million think.

A man must serve his time to every trade
Save censure — critics are ready-made.

There is the moral of all human tales;
’Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,
First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption, barbarism at last.
And History, with all her volumes vast,
Hath but one page

When all of genius which can perish dies.

It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earth-quake-they say Poets never or rarely go mad...but are generally so near it-that I cannot help thinking rhyme is so far useful in anticipating & preventing the disorder.

When people say, 'I've told you fifty times,' They mean to scold, and very often do; When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,' They make you dread that they 'll recite them too; In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes; At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true, But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

He thought about himself, and the whole Earth,
Of Man the wonderful, and of the Stars,
And how the deuce they ever could have birth;
And then he thought of Earthquakes, and of Wars,
How many miles the Moon might have in girth,
Of Air-balloons, and of the many bars
To perfect Knowledge of the boundless Skies;
And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes.

Zda się być żywą -gdyby nie to oko,
Gdzie już nie świeci ni łza, ni namiętność,
Gdzie mieszka zimna, wieczna obojętność.

Where may the wearied eye repose When gazing on the Great; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state? Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — The Cincinnatus of the West,
Whom envy dared not hate,
Bequeath'd the name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one!

So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.