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Lord Byron

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Ada Lovelace "person" (1811-1852) The daughter of Lord Byron, who became the world's first programmer while cooperating with {Charles Babbage} on the design of his mechanical computing engines in the mid-1800s. The language {Ada} was named after her. [{"Ada, Enchantress of Numbers Prophit of the Computer Age", Betty Alexandra Toole (http://well.com/user/adatoole)}]. [More details?] (1999-07-17)

Ada Lovelace ::: (person) (1811-1852) The daughter of Lord Byron, who became the world's first programmer while cooperating with Charles Babbage on the design of his mechanical computing engines in the mid-1800s.The language Ada was named after her.[ Ada, Enchantress of Numbers Prophit of the Computer Age, Betty Alexandra Toole ].[More details?] (1999-07-17)

byronic ::: a. --> Pertaining to, or in the style of, Lord Byron.

II. Metaphysics of History: The metaphysical interpretations of the meaning of history are either supra-mundane or intra-mundane (secular). The oldest extra-mundane, or theological, interpretation has been given by St. Augustine (Civitas Dei), Dante (Divma Commedia) and J. Milton (Paradise Lost and Regained). All historic events are seen as having a bearing upon the redemption of mankind through Christ which will find its completion at the end of this world. Owing to the secularistic tendencies of modern times the Enlightenment Period considered the final end of human history as the achievement of public welfare through the power of reason. Even the ideal of "humanity" of the classic humanists, advocated by Schiller, Goethe, Fichte, Rousseau, Lord Byron, is only a variety of the philosophy of the Enlightenment, and in the same line of thought we find A. Comte, H. Spencer ("human moral"), Engels and K. Marx. The German Idealism of Kant and Hegel saw in history the materialization of the "moral reign of freedom" which achieves its perfection in the "objective spirit of the State". As in the earlier systems of historical logic man lost his individuality before the forces of natural laws, so, according to Hegel, he is nothing but an instrument of the "idea" which develops itself through the three dialectic stages of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. (Example. Absolutism, Democracy, Constitutional Monarchy.) Even the great historian L. v. Ranke could not break the captivating power of the Hegelian mechanism. Ranke places every historical epoch into a relation to God and attributes to it a purpose and end for itself. Lotze and Troeltsch followed in his footsteps. Lately, the evolutionistic interpretation of H. Bergson is much discussed and disputed. His "vital impetus" accounts for the progressiveness of life, but fails to interpret the obvious setbacks and decadent civilizations. According to Kierkegaard and Spranger, merely human ideals prove to be too narrow a basis for the tendencies, accomplishments, norms, and defeats of historic life. It all points to a supra-mundane intelligence which unfolds itself in history. That does not make superfluous a natural interpretation, both views can be combined to understand history as an endless struggle between God's will and human will, or non-willing, for that matter. -- S.V.F.

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1:In solitude, where we are least alone.    ~ Lord Byron,

2:Sincerity may be humble but she cannot be servile. ~ Lord Byron,

3:Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.    ~ Lord Byron,

4:Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.    ~ Lord Byron, [T5],

5:I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like a child stringing beads in kindergarten - happy, absorbed and quietly putting one bead on after another.    ~ Brenda Ueland,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:The poetry of speech. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

2:Let joy be unconfined. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

3:Critics are already made. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

4:That low vice, curiosity! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

5:Happiness was born a twin. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

6:I learned to love despair. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

7:My native land, good night! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

8:Fame is the thirst of youth. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

9:Life is too short for chess. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

10:Think not I am what I appear. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

11:We of the craft are all crazy. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

12:History - the devil's scripture ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

13:To have joy, one must share it. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

14:Eternity forbids thee to forget. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

15:Self praise is no praise at all. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

16:The busy have no time for tears. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

17:The devil was the first democrat ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

18:The dew of compassion is a tear. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

19:Come what may, I have been blest. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

20:Fills The air around with beauty. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

21:I am ashes where once I was fire. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

22:A pretty woman is a welcome guest. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

23:Folly loves the martyrdom of fame. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

24:Frienship is eros... without wings ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

25:I see before me the gladiator lie. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

26:Land of lost gods and godlike men. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

27:Rough Johnson, the great moralist. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

28:Absence - that common cure of love. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

29:Fill high the cup with Samian wine! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

30:Hatred is the madness of the heart. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

31:Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

32:Poetry should only occupy the idle. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

33:Prolonged endurance tames the bold. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

34:Yes! Ready money is Aladdin's lamp. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

35:But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

36:I am not now That which I have been. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

37:I loved my country, and I hated him. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

38:Adversity is the first path to truth. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

39:Friendship is Love without his wings! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

40:I deny nothing, but doubt everything. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

41:In solitude, when we are least alone. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

42:Pure friendship's well-feigned blush. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

43:Sweet is revenge-especially to women. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

44:Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

45:Tyranny is for the worst of treasons. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

46:Good but rarely came from good advice. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

47:I awoke one day to find myself famous. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

48:In solitude, where we are least alone. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

49:Lord of himself; that heritage of woe! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

50:Man's conscience is the oracle of God. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

51:Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

52:One hates an author that's all author. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

53:Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

54:This is the age of oddities let loose. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

55:Who then will explain the explanation? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

56:A drop of ink may make a million think. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

57:And hold up to the sun my little taper. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

58:A quiet conscience makes one so serene. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

59:Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

60:Jealousy dislikes the world to know it. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

61:The French courage proceeds from vanity ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

62:The Niobe of nations! there she stands. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

63:Alas! how deeply painful is all payment! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

64:But stories somehow lengthen when begun. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

65:Despair and Genius are too oft connected ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

66:Heaven gives its favourites-early death. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

67:There is pleasure in the pathless woods. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

68:The very best of vineyards is the cellar ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

69:Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

70:I love not man the less, but Nature more. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

71:Old man! &

72:The heart will break, but broken live on. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

73:They never fail who die in a great cause. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

74:Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

75:A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

76:A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

77:Damn description, it is always disgusting. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

78:Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

79:Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

80:He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

81:My altars are the mountains and the ocean. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

82:Smiles form the channels of a future tear. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

83:So much alarmed that she is quite alarming ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

84:Armenian is the language to speak with God. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

85:My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

86:The best prophet of the future is the past. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

87:Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

88:Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

89:Be warm, be pure, be amorous, but be chaste. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

90:Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

91:I awoke one morning and found myself famous. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

92:If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

93:I had a dream, which was not at all a dream. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

94:The dome of thought, the palace of the soul. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

95:There is no instinct like that of the heart. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

96:This is to be along; this, this is solitude! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

97:To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

98:What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

99:What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

100:By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

101:I have not loved the world, nor the world me. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

102:Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

103:Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

104:The law of heaven and earth is life for life. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

105:Liberty - eternal spirit of the chainless mind ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

106:Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

107:There is music in all things, if men had ears. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

108:You should have a softer pillow than my heart. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

109:A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

110:I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

111:In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

112:They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

113:Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

114:Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

115:Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

116:Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

117:Talent may be in time forgiven, but genius never ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

118:Till taught by pain, men know not water's worth. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

119:It is when we think we lead that we are most led. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

120:Never to talk to ones self is a form of hypocrisy ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

121:Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

122:Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

123:And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

124:For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

125:My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

126:Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

127:And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

128:If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

129:Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

130:Eat, drink and love... the rest is not worth a nickel ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

131:I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

132:On the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

133:For the night Shows stars and women in a better light. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

134:History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

135:Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

136:&

137:And Doubt and Discord step &

138:Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

139:Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

140:I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

141:Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

142:Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

143:The &

144:War, war is still the cry,-&

145:Accursed be the city where the laws would stifle nature's! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

146:Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

147:Of religion I know nothing - at least, in its favor. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

148:What a strange thing is man! And what a stranger is woman. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

149:And life &

150:The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

151:This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

152:Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

153:I only know we loved in vain; I only feel-farewell! farewell! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

154:Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

155:Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

156:Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

157:There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

158:Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

159:Fare thee well, and if for ever Still for ever fare thee well. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

160:There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

161:All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

162:And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

163:Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

164:Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

165:And the commencement of atonement is the sense of its necessity. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

166:A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

167:A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

168:Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

169:If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

170:In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

171:Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

172:yet cannot overcome — and so I live. Would I had never lived!" ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

173:Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

174:Champagne with its foaming whirls/As white as Cleopatra's pearls. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

175:Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

176:Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

177:A woman being never at a loss... the devil always sticks by them. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

178:He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

179:I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

180:That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

181:Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

182:And if I laugh at any mortal thing, &

183:Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

184:In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

185:Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

186:No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

187:There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

188:This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

189:Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

190:Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

191:Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

192:No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

193:A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

194:Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

195:So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

196:So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

197:Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

198:Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

199:If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

200:Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

201:Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

202:Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

203:Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

204:It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

205:Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

206:So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

207:The Cardinal is at his wit's end - it is true that he had not far to go. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

208:The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

209:I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

210:And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

211:Let none think to fly the danger for soon or late love is his own avenger. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

212:The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

213:This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

214:Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

215:A celebrity is one who is known to many persons he is glad he doesn't know. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

216:A feast not profuse but elegant; more of salt [refinement] than of expense. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

217:Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

218:Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

219:I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

220:You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

221:All tragedies are finished by a death, All comedies are ended by a marriage. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

222:Curiosity kills itself; and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

223:Dreading that climax of all human ills the inflammation of his weekly bills. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

224:Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

225:Of all tales 'tis the saddest&

226:There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

227:I slept and dreamt that life was beauty; I woke and found that life was duty. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

228:The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

229:We are all selfish and I no more trust myself than others with a good motive. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

230:Whatsoever thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

231:I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

232:I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

233:When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls&

234:He was a man of his times. with one virtue and a thousand crimes. (The Corsair) ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

235:He who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

236:Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

237:Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

238:Her great merit is finding out mine; there is nothing so amiable as discernment. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

239:No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

240:Reason is so unreasonable, that few people can say they are in possession of it. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

241:As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

242:A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

243:I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as most people - being always excited. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

244:Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

245:Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

246:The drying up a single tear has more, of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

247:Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

248:When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

249:Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

250:He who is only just is cruel; who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

251:Love rules the camp, the court, the grove - for love is Heaven, and Heaven is love. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

252:Religion-freedom-vengeance-what you will, A word's enough to raise mankind to kill. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

253:Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tries, the Bores and Bored. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

254:The poor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

255:A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

256:Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

257:Shakespeare's name, you may depend on it, stands absurdly too high and will go down. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

258:The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

259:I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse - borne away with every breath! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

260:I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

261:Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

262:Muse of the many twinkling feet, whose charms are now extending up from legs to arms. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

263:Retirement accords with the tone of my mind; I will not descend to a world I despise. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

264:By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

265:Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

266:One of the pleasures of reading old letters is the knowledge that they need no answer. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

267:The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

268:And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

269:For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

270:Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

271:Glory, like the phoenix &

272:He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

273:Mark! Where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it-peace! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

274:That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

275:The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

276:Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

277:I have always believed that all things depended upon Fortune, and nothing upon ourselves. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

278:For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

279:It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts - you have no idea of the pain it gives one. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

280:Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

281:The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

282:Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

283:Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

284:Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

285:I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

286:What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, is much more common where the climate's sultry. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

287:Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

288:He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

289:They used to say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I know now they mean money. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

290:&

291:As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

292:Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

293:For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

294:I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

295:Such hath it been&

296:Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

297:But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

298:What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

299:Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

300:There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

301:Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

302:[Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

303:Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

304:I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

305:I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

306:All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

307:Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; A single laugh demolish'd the right arm Of his own country. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

308:Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived by those we love, than in being undeceived by them. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

309:A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

310:Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

311:Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

312:With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

313:A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover - but will sooner or later find a tyrant. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

314:Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

315:In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

316:The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

317:Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

318:It is odd but agitation or contest of any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me up for a time. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

319:Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

320:There is, in fact, no law or government at all; and it is wonderful how well things go on without them. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

321:There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

322:Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

323:To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

324:Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes: Pique her and soothe in turn-soon Passion crowns thy hopes. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

325:I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

326:I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

327:I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

328:The Christian has greatly the advantage of the unbeliever, having everything to gain and nothing to lose. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

329:The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

330:When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter." And proved it&

331:The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

332:If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

333:It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe; you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

334:Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

335:America is a model of force and freedom and moderation - with all the coarseness and rudeness of its people. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

336:Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

337:&

338:One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

339:Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!&

340:I am as comfortless as a pilgrim with peas in his shoes - and as cold as Charity, Chastity or any other Virtue. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

341:I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

342:I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

343:Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

344:My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

345:Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

346:I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

347:I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

348:There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

349:I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

350:Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

351:A mistress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you are lovers; and when it is over, anything but friends. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

352:Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

353:He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

354:Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

355:What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

356:What is Death, so it be but glorious? &

357:The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

358:.. that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

359:The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

360:What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

361:Good work and joyous play go hand in hand. When play stops, old age begins. Play keeps you from taking life too seriously. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

362:A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

363:A sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

364:This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

365:For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

366: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

367:That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

368: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

369:My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

370:None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

371:I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

372:Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

373:My turn of mind is so given to taking things in the absurd point of view, that it breaks out in spite of me every now and then. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

374:Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

375:I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

376:Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

377:Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

378:The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses that pull, Each tugs in a different way And the greatest of all is John Bull! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

379:Always laugh when you can; it is cheap medicine. Merriment is a philosophy not well understood. It is the sunny side of existence. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

380: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

381: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

382:I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

383:Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

384:On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the Glowing Hours with Flying feet ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

385:A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

386:Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

387:Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

388:The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

389: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

390:Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of the world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

391:Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

392:We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

393:&

394:But I had not quite fixed whether to make him [Don Juan] end in Hell-or in an unhappy marriage,-not knowing which would be the severest. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

395: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

396:I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

397:I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

398:Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to lift from earth our low desire. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

399:It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flatter; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

400:But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

401:To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

402:As long as I retain my feeling and my passion for Nature, I can partly soften or subdue my other passions and resist or endure those of others. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

403: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

404:She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

405:The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!&

406:I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

407:I came to realize clearly that the mind is no other than the Mountain and the Rivers and the great wide Earth, the Sun and the Moon and the Sky”. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

408:I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

409:Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

410:In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

411: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

412:Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

413: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

414: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 ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

415:The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

416:The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

417:Your thief looks Exactly like the rest, or rather better; &

418:If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

419:Send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years . ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

420:What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life&

421:You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task. ~ john-keats, @wisdomtrove

422:I cannot describe to you the despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems incapable or unwilling to do anything further for himself. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

423:Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

424:Though the day of my Destiny &

425:But I hate things all fiction... there should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric - and pure invention is but the talent of a liar. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

426:I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels; make air instead of sea voyages; and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

427:Man's love is of man's life a part; it is a woman's whole existence. In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

428:The reason that adulation is not displeasing is that, though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to induce people to lie. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

429:I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

430: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

431:What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

432:Books, Manuals, Directives, Regulations. The geometries that circumscribe your working life draw norrower and norrower until nothing fits inside them anymore. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

433:Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-&

434:In general I do not draw well with literary men - not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

435:There is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

436:Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

437: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

438:All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99 ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

439: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

440:And angling too, that solitary vice, What Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

441:Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

442:Romantic poetry had its heyday when people like Lord Byron were kicking it large. But you try and make a living as a poet today, and you'll find it's very different! ~ alan-moore, @wisdomtrove

443:A man must serve his time to every trade, Save censure-critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote With just enough learning to misquote. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

444:I cannot conceive why people will always mix up my own character and opinions with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have the right and liberty to draw. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

445:There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

446:Tyranny Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem None rebels except subjects? The prince who Neglects or violates his trust is more A brigand than the robber-chief. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

447:But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

448:Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

449:Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

450:Tis an old lesson; time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

451:Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

452:Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company&

453:What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

454: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

455:Ecclesiastes said that "all is vanity," Most modern preachers say the same, or show it By their examples of true Christianity: In short, all know, or very short may know it. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

456: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

457:ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

458:I should be very willing to redress men wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, had not Cervantes, in that all too true tale of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

459:Marriage, from love, like vinegar from wine&

460:The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

461:I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, - and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth, - thou livest forever! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

462: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

463:Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

464:Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

465:To what gulfs A single deviation from the track Of human duties leads even those who claim The homage of mankind as their born due, And find it, till they forfeit it themselves! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

466:In secret we met - In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? - With silence and tears ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

467:Lovers may be and indeed generally are enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

468:I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

469:Man is born passionate of body, but with an innate though secret tendency to the love of Good in his main-spring of Mind. But God help us all! It is at present a sad jar of atoms. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

470:&

471: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

472:Oh! too convincing&

473:The image of Eternity&

474:The lapse of ages changes all things - time, language, the earth, the bounds of the sea, the stars of the sky, and every thing about, around, and underneath man, except man himself. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

475: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

476:But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

477: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

478:Tis strange,-but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

479: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&

480:Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze; When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

481:Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,- Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

482:But &

483:Well, well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering winds shift, shift our sails. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

484:But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,&

485: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

486:What an antithetical mind! - tenderness, roughness - delicacy, coarseness - sentiment, sensuality - soaring and groveling, dirt and deity - all mixed up in that one compound of inspired clay! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

487:I think the worst woman that ever existed would have made a man of very passable reputation - they are all better than us and their faults such as they are must originate with ourselves. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

488:Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No," And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

489:Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

490:There are four questions of value in life, Don Octavio. What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

491:Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom? ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

492:You have to have a passion for your work. How can we expect people to be passionate if you, as their coach, does not have a passion? Coaching has to be something that gives you passion and energy. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

493: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

494:There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

495:Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

496:It is true from early habit, one must make love mechanically as one swims; I was once very fond of both, but now as I never swim unless I tumble into the water, I don't make love till almost obliged. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

497: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. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

498:Tis the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filtered through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

499:I know that two and two make four - and should be glad to prove it too if I could - though I must say if by any sort of process I could convert 2 and 2 into five it would give me much greater pleasure. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

500:When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past - For years fleet away with the wings of the dove - The dearest remembrance will still be the last,  Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:My beautiful, my own ~ Lord Byron,

2:The poetry of speech. ~ Lord Byron,

3:Venice once was dear, ~ Lord Byron,

4:Hail, Muse! et cetera. ~ Lord Byron,

5:Let joy be unconfined. ~ Lord Byron,

6:Critics are already made. ~ Lord Byron,

7:That low vice, curiosity! ~ Lord Byron,

8:Happiness was born a twin. ~ Lord Byron,

9:I learned to love despair. ~ Lord Byron,

10:My native land, good night! ~ Lord Byron,

11:Fame is the thirst of youth. ~ Lord Byron,

12:For Earth is but a tombstone ~ Lord Byron,

13:Life is too short for chess. ~ Lord Byron,

14:As if her veins ran lightning ~ Lord Byron,

15:Think not I am what I appear. ~ Lord Byron,

16:whom the god loves dies young ~ Lord Byron,

17:We of the craft are all crazy. ~ Lord Byron,

18:History - the devil's scripture ~ Lord Byron,

19:To have joy, one must share it. ~ Lord Byron,

20:Eternity forbids thee to forget. ~ Lord Byron,

21:I want a hero: an uncommon want, ~ Lord Byron,

22:Self praise is no praise at all. ~ Lord Byron,

23:The busy have no time for tears. ~ Lord Byron,

24:The devil was the first democrat ~ Lord Byron,

25:The dew of compassion is a tear. ~ Lord Byron,

26:Come what may, I have been blest. ~ Lord Byron,

27:Fills The air around with beauty. ~ Lord Byron,

28:Friendship is love without wings. ~ Lord Byron,

29:Frienship is eros...without wings ~ Lord Byron,

30:I am ashes where once I was fire. ~ Lord Byron,

31:[My advice] will one day be found ~ Lord Byron,

32:A pretty woman is a welcome guest. ~ Lord Byron,

33:Folly loves the martyrdom of fame. ~ Lord Byron,

34:I see before me the gladiator lie. ~ Lord Byron,

35:Land of lost gods and godlike men. ~ Lord Byron,

36:Rough Johnson, the great moralist. ~ Lord Byron,

37:With flowing tail and flying mane, ~ Lord Byron,

38:Absence - that common cure of love. ~ Lord Byron,

39:Fill high the cup with Samian wine! ~ Lord Byron,

40:Hatred is the madness of the heart. ~ Lord Byron,

41:I am ashes where once I was fire... ~ Lord Byron,

42:Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight. ~ Lord Byron,

43:Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die. ~ Lord Byron,

44:Poetry should only occupy the idle. ~ Lord Byron,

45:Prolonged endurance tames the bold. ~ Lord Byron,

46:Was Juan a recherché welcome guest, ~ Lord Byron,

47:Yes! Ready money is Aladdin's lamp. ~ Lord Byron,

48:But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. ~ Lord Byron,

49:but quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. ~ Lord Byron,

50:Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe ~ Lord Byron,

51:I loved my country, and I hated him. ~ Lord Byron,

52:Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, ~ Lord Byron,

53:Adversity is the first path to truth. ~ Lord Byron,

54:Friendship is Love without his wings! ~ Lord Byron,

55:I deny nothing, but doubt everything. ~ Lord Byron,

56:If I have any fault, it is digression ~ Lord Byron,

57:In solitude, when we are least alone. ~ Lord Byron,

58:Pure friendship's well-feigned blush. ~ Lord Byron,

59:Socrates said, our only knowledge was ~ Lord Byron,

60:Sweet is revenge-especially to women. ~ Lord Byron,

61:Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid! ~ Lord Byron,

62:Tyranny is for the worst of treasons. ~ Lord Byron,

63:Good but rarely came from good advice. ~ Lord Byron,

64:I awoke one day to find myself famous. ~ Lord Byron,

65:In solitude, where we are least alone. ~ Lord Byron,

66:Lord of himself; that heritage of woe! ~ Lord Byron,

67:Man's conscience is the oracle of God. ~ Lord Byron,

68:Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul! ~ Lord Byron,

69:One hates an author that's all author. ~ Lord Byron,

70:Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean ~ Lord Byron,

71:This is the age of oddities let loose. ~ Lord Byron,

72:We of the craft (poets) are all crazy. ~ Lord Byron,

73:Who then will explain the explanation? ~ Lord Byron,

74:A drop of ink may make a million think. ~ Lord Byron,

75:And hold up to the sun my little taper. ~ Lord Byron,

76:A quiet conscience makes one so serene. ~ Lord Byron,

77:Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be ~ Lord Byron,

78:Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away. ~ Lord Byron,

79:Jealousy dislikes the world to know it. ~ Lord Byron,

80:Knowledge is not happiness, and science ~ Lord Byron,

81:The French courage proceeds from vanity ~ Lord Byron,

82:The Niobe of nations! there she stands. ~ Lord Byron,

83:With virtues equall'd by her wit alone, ~ Lord Byron,

84:Alas! how deeply painful is all payment! ~ Lord Byron,

85:But stories somehow lengthen when begun. ~ Lord Byron,

86:Despair and Genius are too oft connected ~ Lord Byron,

87:Heaven gives its favourites-early death. ~ Lord Byron,

88:I love not man the less, but nature more ~ Lord Byron,

89:On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd ~ Lord Byron,

90:There is pleasure in the pathless woods. ~ Lord Byron,

91:The very best of vineyards is the cellar ~ Lord Byron,

92:Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart. ~ Lord Byron,

93:Here we are and there we go:---but where? ~ Lord Byron,

94:I love not man the less, but Nature more. ~ Lord Byron,

95:In solitude, where we are least alone.    ~ Lord Byron,

96:Recuso-me a ser escravo de algum apetite. ~ Lord Byron,

97:The heart will break, but broken live on. ~ Lord Byron,

98:They never fail who die in a great cause. ~ Lord Byron,

99:Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! ~ Lord Byron,

100:A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. ~ Lord Byron,

101:A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! ~ Lord Byron,

102:But who, alas! can love, and then be wise? ~ Lord Byron,

103:Damn description, it is always disgusting. ~ Lord Byron,

104:Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. ~ Lord Byron,

105:Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on. ~ Lord Byron,

106:He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace! ~ Lord Byron,

107:I awoke one morning to find myself famous. ~ Lord Byron,

108:if i dont write to empty my mind, i go mad ~ Lord Byron,

109:My altars are the mountains and the ocean. ~ Lord Byron,

110:Once more upon the waters! yet once more! ~ Lord Byron,

111:Smiles form the channels of a future tear. ~ Lord Byron,

112:So much alarmed that she is quite alarming ~ Lord Byron,

113:The heart will break, but broken live on. ~ Lord Byron,

114:And gave no outward signs of inward strife, ~ Lord Byron,

115:Armenian is the language to speak with God. ~ Lord Byron,

116:Life's enchanted cup sparkles near the brim ~ Lord Byron,

117:My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. ~ Lord Byron,

118:The best prophet of the future is the past. ~ Lord Byron,

119:Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity. ~ Lord Byron,

120:Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave? ~ Lord Byron,

121:Be warm, be pure, be amorous, but be chaste. ~ Lord Byron,

122:But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth; ~ Lord Byron,

123:Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one. ~ Lord Byron,

124:I awoke one morning and found myself famous. ~ Lord Byron,

125:If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. ~ Lord Byron,

126:I had a dream, which was not at all a dream. ~ Lord Byron,

127:The dome of thought, the palace of the soul. ~ Lord Byron,

128:There is no instinct like that of the heart. ~ Lord Byron,

129:This is to be along; this, this is solitude! ~ Lord Byron,

130:To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. ~ Lord Byron,

131:What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? ~ Lord Byron,

132:What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking! ~ Lord Byron,

133:By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies. ~ Lord Byron,

134:If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad. ~ Lord Byron,

135:I have not loved the world, nor the world me. ~ Lord Byron,

136:Le donne sono angeli,il matrimonio il diavolo ~ Lord Byron,

137:Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen. ~ Lord Byron,

138:Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels. ~ Lord Byron,

139:The law of heaven and earth is life for life. ~ Lord Byron,

140:...And these vicissitudes come best in youth; ~ Lord Byron,

141:Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, ~ Lord Byron,

142:Liberty - eternal spirit of the chainless mind ~ Lord Byron,

143:Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. ~ Lord Byron,

144:The power of thought is the magic of the mind. ~ Lord Byron,

145:There is music in all things, if men had ears. ~ Lord Byron,

146:There 's music in all things, if men had ears: ~ Lord Byron,

147:You should have a softer pillow than my heart. ~ Lord Byron,

148:A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded. ~ Lord Byron,

149:I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day. ~ Lord Byron,

150:In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell. ~ Lord Byron,

151:Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. ~ Lord Byron,

152:The best of prophets of the future is the past. ~ Lord Byron,

153:They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness. ~ Lord Byron,

154:Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine. ~ Lord Byron,

155:Always laugh when you can, it is cheap medicine. ~ Lord Byron,

156:a pleasant city, Famous for oranges and women ~ Lord Byron,

157:Being of no party, I shall offend all parties ~ Lord Byron,

158:Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes; ~ Lord Byron,

159:Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. ~ Lord Byron,

160:Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried. ~ Lord Byron,

161:Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner. ~ Lord Byron,

162:Talent may be in time forgiven, but genius never ~ Lord Byron,

163:Till taught by pain, men know not water's worth. ~ Lord Byron,

164:And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee. ~ Lord Byron,

165:It is when we think we lead that we are most led. ~ Lord Byron,

166:Never to talk to ones self is a form of hypocrisy ~ Lord Byron,

167:Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure. ~ Lord Byron,

168:'Tis very certain the desire of life prolongs it. ~ Lord Byron,

169:Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy? ~ Lord Byron,

170:Always laugh when you can. It is a cheap medicine. ~ Lord Byron,

171:And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter. ~ Lord Byron,

172:For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction. ~ Lord Byron,

173:My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea. ~ Lord Byron,

174:none are left to please when none are left to love. ~ Lord Byron,

175:Sólo salgo para renovar la necesidad de estar solo. ~ Lord Byron,

176:The 'good old times' - all times when old are good. ~ Lord Byron,

177:War, war is still the cry,-"war even to the knife!" ~ Lord Byron,

178:Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. ~ Lord Byron,

179:And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on. ~ Lord Byron,

180:And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier! ~ Lord Byron,

181:Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel ~ Lord Byron,

182:If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. ~ Lord Byron,

183:Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! ~ Lord Byron,

184:The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, ~ Lord Byron,

185:And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. ~ Lord Byron,

186:History, with all her volumes vast, hath but one page ~ Lord Byron,

187:I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual. ~ Lord Byron,

188:Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor. ~ Lord Byron,

189:On the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. ~ Lord Byron,

190:For the night Shows stars and women in a better light. ~ Lord Byron,

191:History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page. ~ Lord Byron,

192:Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen. ~ Lord Byron,

193:Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were. ~ Lord Byron,

194:Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. ~ Lord Byron,

195:If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.” - Lord Byron ~ Rossi Fox,

196:I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone. ~ Lord Byron,

197:Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty. ~ Lord Byron,

198:Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe. ~ Lord Byron,

199:The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted. ~ Lord Byron,

200:When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past - ~ Lord Byron,

201:Accursed be the city where the laws would stifle nature's! ~ Lord Byron,

202:Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. ~ Lord Byron,

203:What a strange thing is man! And what a stranger is woman. ~ Lord Byron,

204:The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August ~ Lord Byron,

205:This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality. ~ Lord Byron,

206:Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source. ~ Lord Byron,

207:And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep. ~ Lord Byron,

208:I only know we loved in vain; I only feel-farewell! farewell! ~ Lord Byron,

209:Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey. ~ Lord Byron,

210:Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at? ~ Lord Byron,

211:Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality. ~ Lord Byron,

212:There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away. ~ Lord Byron,

213:But for the present gentle reader! And still gentler purchaser ~ Lord Byron,

214:Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year. ~ Lord Byron,

215:Fare thee well, and if for ever Still for ever fare thee well. ~ Lord Byron,

216:There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake. ~ Lord Byron,

217:All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin. ~ Lord Byron,

218:And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear. ~ Lord Byron,

219:A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think. ~ Lord Byron,

220:Come, lay thy head upon my breast and I'll kiss thee unto rest. ~ Lord Byron,

221:If I could always read I should never feel the want of company. ~ Lord Byron,

222:Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die. ~ Lord Byron,

223:Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf. ~ Lord Byron,

224:And the commencement of atonement is the sense of its necessity. ~ Lord Byron,

225:A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound. ~ Lord Byron,

226:Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge. ~ Lord Byron,

227:If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company. ~ Lord Byron,

228:In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves. ~ Lord Byron,

229:I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker. ~ Lord Byron,

230:Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce. ~ Lord Byron,

231:The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses who pull; ~ Lord Byron,

232:A woman being never at a loss... the devil always sticks by them. ~ Lord Byron,

233:Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage. ~ Lord Byron,

234:Champagne with its foaming whirls/As white as Cleopatra's pearls. ~ Lord Byron,

235:Fare thee well, and if for ever Still for ever fare thee well. ~ Lord Byron,

236:Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore. ~ Lord Byron,

237:Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save. ~ Lord Byron,

238:Composing a letter is a way to combine solitude with good company. ~ Lord Byron,

239:He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. ~ Lord Byron,

240:That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech. ~ Lord Byron,

241:Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them. ~ Lord Byron,

242:all that's best of dark and bright/ meet in her aspect and her eyes ~ Lord Byron,

243:Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand. ~ Lord Byron,

244:In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy. ~ Lord Byron,

245:Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste. ~ Lord Byron,

246:Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, and greater criminals? ~ Lord Byron,

247:No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed. ~ Lord Byron,

248:There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave. ~ Lord Byron,

249:This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction. ~ Lord Byron,

250:Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss. ~ Lord Byron,

251:All who joy would win Must share it -- Happiness was born a twin. ~ Lord Byron,

252:Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! ~ Lord Byron,

253:I am at length joined to Bologna, where I am settled like a sausage. ~ Lord Byron,

254:Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life. ~ Lord Byron,

255:No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell! ~ Lord Byron,

256:Where there is mystery, it is generally supposed there must be evil. ~ Lord Byron,

257:A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins. ~ Lord Byron,

258:Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end. ~ Lord Byron,

259:So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry. ~ Lord Byron,

260:So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less! ~ Lord Byron,

261:Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine. ~ Lord Byron,

262:Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave. ~ Lord Byron,

263:If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die. ~ Lord Byron,

264:¡Qué poco sabemos de lo que somos! ¡Como menos lo que podemos ser! ~ Lord Byron,

265:Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave. ~ Lord Byron,

266:Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company. ~ Lord Byron,

267:Of all tales 'tis the saddest--and more sad, Because it makes us smile. ~ Lord Byron,

268:Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people. ~ Lord Byron,

269:She is so good a person, that - that - in short, I wish I was a better. ~ Lord Byron,

270:Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others. ~ Lord Byron,

271:It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake. ~ Lord Byron,

272:Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not. ~ Lord Byron,

273:So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice. ~ Lord Byron,

274:The Cardinal is at his wit's end - it is true that he had not far to go. ~ Lord Byron,

275:The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain. ~ Lord Byron,

276:I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed. ~ Lord Byron,

277:When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls--the World. ~ Lord Byron,

278:And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes. ~ Lord Byron,

279:Let none think to fly the danger for soon or late love is his own avenger. ~ Lord Byron,

280:The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat. ~ Lord Byron,

281:This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal. ~ Lord Byron,

282:Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil. ~ Lord Byron,

283:A celebrity is one who is known to many persons he is glad he doesn't know. ~ Lord Byron,

284:A feast not profuse but elegant; more of salt [refinement] than of expense. ~ Lord Byron,

285:Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them? ~ Lord Byron,

286:Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see. ~ Lord Byron,

287:I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting. ~ Lord Byron,

288:Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence. ~ Lord Byron,

289:You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock? ~ Lord Byron,

290:All tragedies are finished by a death, All comedies are ended by a marriage. ~ Lord Byron,

291:And all that 's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes ~ Lord Byron,

292:Be hypocritical, be cautious, be Not what you seem, but always what you see. ~ Lord Byron,

293:Curiosity kills itself; and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end. ~ Lord Byron,

294:Dreading that climax of all human ills the inflammation of his weekly bills. ~ Lord Byron,

295:Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication. ~ Lord Byron,

296:There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion. ~ Lord Byron,

297:And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes. ~ Lord Byron,

298:I slept and dreamt that life was beauty; I woke and found that life was duty. ~ Lord Byron,

299:I suppose I had some meaning when I wrote it; I believe I understood it then. ~ Lord Byron,

300:The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice. ~ Lord Byron,

301:Tis strange - but true; for Truth is always strange, Stranger than Fiction ~ Lord Byron,

302:We are all selfish and I no more trust myself than others with a good motive. ~ Lord Byron,

303:Whatsoever thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. ~ Lord Byron,

304:I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand. ~ Lord Byron,

305:I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor. ~ Lord Byron,

306:Hate is by far the greatest pleasure; men love in haste, but detest in leisure. ~ Lord Byron,

307:He was a man of his times. with one virtue and a thousand crimes. (The Corsair) ~ Lord Byron,

308:He who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below. ~ Lord Byron,

309:Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister ~ Lord Byron,

310:Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone. ~ Lord Byron,

311:Her great merit is finding out mine; there is nothing so amiable as discernment. ~ Lord Byron,

312:I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse -- borne away with every breath! ~ Lord Byron,

313:Il ricordo del piacere non è più piacere. Il ricordo del dolore è ancora dolore. ~ Lord Byron,

314:No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe. ~ Lord Byron,

315:Reason is so unreasonable, that few people can say they are in possession of it. ~ Lord Byron,

316:And when we think we lead, we are most led. —Lord Byron, The Two Foscari (1821) ~ Raine Miller,

317:As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands. ~ Lord Byron,

318:A sleep without dreams, after a rough day of toil, is what we covet most; and yet ~ Lord Byron,

319:A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts. ~ Lord Byron,

320:I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as most people - being always excited. ~ Lord Byron,

321:Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days! ~ Lord Byron,

322:Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages. ~ Lord Byron,

323:That is the usual method, but not mine— My way is to begin with the beginning; ~ Lord Byron,

324:The drying up a single tear has more, of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. ~ Lord Byron,

325:Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs. ~ Lord Byron,

326:When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years. ~ Lord Byron,

327:Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. ~ Lord Byron,

328:Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part? ~ Lord Byron,

329:The great object of life is sensation- to feel that we exist, even though in pain. ~ Lord Byron,

330:There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore. ~ Lord Byron,

331:He who is only just is cruel; who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly? ~ Lord Byron,

332:Love rules the camp, the court, the grove - for love is Heaven, and Heaven is love. ~ Lord Byron,

333:Religion-freedom-vengeance-what you will, A word's enough to raise mankind to kill. ~ Lord Byron,

334:Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tries, the Bores and Bored. ~ Lord Byron,

335:strange, the Hebrew noun which means “I am”, The English always use to govern damn. ~ Lord Byron,

336:The poor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend. ~ Lord Byron,

337:A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty ~ Lord Byron,

338:Shakespeare's name, you may depend on it, stands absurdly too high and will go down. ~ Lord Byron,

339:Society is now one polish'd horde, Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. ~ Lord Byron,

340:Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one. ~ Lord Byron,

341:The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports. ~ Lord Byron,

342:The moon is up, and yet it is not night, The sun as yet divides the day with her. ~ Lord Byron,

343:The world is rid of Lord Byron, but the deadly slime of his touch still remains. ~ John Constable,

344:I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen. ~ Lord Byron,

345:Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after. ~ Lord Byron,

346:Muse of the many twinkling feet, whose charms are now extending up from legs to arms. ~ Lord Byron,

347:Retirement accords with the tone of my mind; I will not descend to a world I despise. ~ Lord Byron,

348:To others' share let 'female errors fall,' For she had not even one—the worst of all. ~ Lord Byron,

349:And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me! ~ Lord Byron,

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

351:O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour. ~ Lord Byron,

352:Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land! ~ Lord Byron,

353:One of the pleasures of reading old letters is the knowledge that they need no answer. ~ Lord Byron,

354:The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do. ~ Lord Byron,

355:Though the day of my destiny’s over, And the star of my fate has declined. —Lord Byron ~ M C Beaton,

356:And, after all, what is a lie?  'Tis but the truth in masquerade;” — Don Juan, Lord Byron ~ M Malone,

357:And mine’s a bubble not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays. ~ Lord Byron,

358:For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. ~ Lord Byron,

359:I have stood upon Achilles' tomb and heard Troy doubted, Time will doubt of Rome ~ Lord Byron,

360:In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love. ~ Lord Byron,

361:the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, the first to welcome, the foremost to defend. ~ Lord Byron,

362:Censure no more shall brand my humble name The child of passion and the fool of fame ~ Lord Byron,

363:Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship. ~ Lord Byron,

364:He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse. ~ Lord Byron,

365:LUCIFER: I pity thee who lovest what must perish. CAIN: And I thee who lov'st nothing ~ Lord Byron,

366:Mark! Where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it-peace! ~ Lord Byron,

367:That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. ~ Lord Byron,

368:The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space. ~ Lord Byron,

369:'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come. ~ Lord Byron,

370:Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great! ~ Lord Byron,

371:I have always believed that all things depended upon Fortune, and nothing upon ourselves. ~ Lord Byron,

372:Lord Byron is only great as a poet; as soon as he reflects he is a child. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

373:Oh! Many a time and oft had Harold loved, or dream'd he'd loved since Rapture is a dream. ~ Lord Byron,

374:Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone. ~ Lord Byron,

375:And he who lieth there was childless. I have dried the fountain of gentle race.. -Cain ~ Lord Byron,

376:For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable. ~ Lord Byron,

377:It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts - you have no idea of the pain it gives one. ~ Lord Byron,

378:Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. ~ Lord Byron,

379:The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. ~ Lord Byron,

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

381:Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. ~ Lord Byron,

382:And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on. —Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage ~ Matt Haig,

383:Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. ~ Lord Byron,

384:I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts. ~ Lord Byron,

385:The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space. ~ Lord Byron,

386:What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, is much more common where the climate's sultry. ~ Lord Byron,

387:Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair? ~ Lord Byron,

388:And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, That good but rarely came from good advice. ~ Lord Byron,

389:He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery. ~ Lord Byron,

390:In vain!—As fall the dews on quenchless sands, Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands! ~ Lord Byron,

391:Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. ~ Lord Byron,

392:They used to say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I know now they mean money. ~ Lord Byron,

393:A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented. ~ Lord Byron,

394:As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene. ~ Lord Byron,

395:Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.    ~ Lord Byron,

396:Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep. ~ Lord Byron,

397:For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn? ~ Lord Byron,

398:I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness. ~ Lord Byron,

399:Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure. ~ Lord Byron,

400:Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist then Pleasure. ~ Lord Byron,

401:When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter." And proved it--'t was no matter what he said. ~ Lord Byron,

402:With just enough of learning to misquote. ~ Lord Byron, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers (1809), line 66.,

403:But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. ~ Lord Byron,

404:He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery. ~ Lord Byron,

405:" — I may stand alone,But would not change my free thoughts for a throne." ~ Lord Byron(Don Juan ; Canto 11),

406:In secret we met In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. ~ Lord Byron,

407:The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain,” said Lord Byron, ~ Shirley Jackson,

408:There's music in all things, if men had ears: Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. ~ Lord Byron #music,

409:They grieved for those who perished with the cutter, and also for the biscuit casks and butter. ~ Lord Byron,

410:What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great? ~ Lord Byron,

411:and what is writ, is writ, Would it were worthier! but I am not now That which I have been ~ Lord Byron,

412:If I should meet thee After long years How should I greet thee? With silence and tears. ~ Lord Byron,

413:Poetry is a distinct faculty, - it won't come when called, - you may as well whistle for a wind. ~ Lord Byron,

414:Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it. ~ Lord Byron,

415:There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. ~ Lord Byron,

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

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

418:Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain ~ Lord Byron,

419:I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania. ~ Lord Byron,

420:I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned. ~ Lord Byron,

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

422:A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented. ~ Lord Byron,

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

424:Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; A single laugh demolish'd the right arm Of his own country. ~ Lord Byron,

425:Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived by those we love, than in being undeceived by them. ~ Lord Byron,

426:Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants. ~ Lord Byron,

427:Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair. ~ Lord Byron,

428:Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion. ~ Lord Byron,

429:With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms. ~ Lord Byron,

430:A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover - but will sooner or later find a tyrant. ~ Lord Byron,

431:Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did. ~ Lord Byron,

432:In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour. ~ Lord Byron,

433:More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare And die at once than wrestle with despair... ~ Lord Byron,

434:Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. ~ Lord Byron, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers (1809), line 326.,

435:A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover -- but will sooner or later find a tyrant. ~ Lord Byron,

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

437:Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast. ~ Lord Byron,

438:I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey But was my own destroyer, and will be My own hereafter. ~ Lord Byron,

439:It is odd but agitation or contest of any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me up for a time. ~ Lord Byron,

440:Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. ~ Lord Byron,

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

442:There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything. ~ Lord Byron,

443:Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves. ~ Lord Byron,

444:To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all. ~ Lord Byron,

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

446:I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil. ~ Lord Byron,

447:I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it. ~ Lord Byron,

448:I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all. ~ Lord Byron,

449:The Christian has greatly the advantage of the unbeliever, having everything to gain and nothing to lose. ~ Lord Byron,

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

451:Where all have gone, and all must go To be the nothing that I was 'Ere born to life and living woe! ~ Lord Byron,

452:The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game. ~ Lord Byron,

453:If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom. ~ Lord Byron,

454:It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe; you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep. ~ Lord Byron,

455:Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. ~ Lord Byron,

456:America is a model of force and freedom and moderation - with all the coarseness and rudeness of its people. ~ Lord Byron,

457:Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world. ~ Lord Byron,

458:If I am a fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom. ~ Lord Byron,

459:Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? ~ Lord Byron,

460:One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. ~ Lord Byron,

461:I am as comfortless as a pilgrim with peas in his shoes - and as cold as Charity, Chastity or any other Virtue. ~ Lord Byron,

462:I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library. ~ Lord Byron,

463:I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South ~ Lord Byron,

464:Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought? ~ Lord Byron,

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

466:What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset; And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay. ~ Lord Byron,

467:Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded That all the Apostles would have done as they did. LORD BYRON ~ A C Grayling,

468:I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. ~ Lord Byron,

469:I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week. ~ Lord Byron,

470:There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth ~ Lord Byron,

471:I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether. ~ Lord Byron,

472:We of the craft are all crazy. Some are affected by gaiety, others by melancholy, but all are more or less touched. ~ Lord Byron,

473:Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night! ~ Lord Byron,

474:A mistress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you are lovers; and when it is over, anything but friends. ~ Lord Byron,

475:and there the stories Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. ~ Lord Byron,

476:Ata që nuk do të arsyetojnë, janë fanatikë, ata që nuk munden, janë të marrë, dhe ata që nuk guxojnë, janë skllevër. ~ Lord Byron,

477:Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life. ~ Lord Byron,

478:I see before me the Gladiator lie: / He leans upon his hand - his manly brow / Consents to death, but conquers agony. ~ Lord Byron,

479:Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life. ~ Lord Byron,

480:There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion. ~ Lord Byron, Don Juan (1818-24), Canto II, Stanza 34,

481:He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him. ~ Lord Byron,

482:Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers. ~ Lord Byron,

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

484:The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose. ~ Lord Byron,

485:The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting. ~ Lord Byron,

486:What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little. ~ Lord Byron,

487:Good work and joyous play go hand in hand. When play stops, old age begins. Play keeps you from taking life too seriously. ~ Lord Byron,

488: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. ~ Lord Byron,

489:That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane ~ Lord Byron,

490:A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress. ~ Lord Byron,

491:A sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned. ~ Lord Byron,

492:This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions. ~ Lord Byron,

493:For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear. ~ Lord Byron,

494: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. ~ Lord Byron,

495: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. ~ Lord Byron,

496:None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear. ~ Lord Byron,

497:Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.    ~ Lord Byron, [T5],

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

499: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. ~ Lord Byron,

500:I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five? ~ Lord Byron,

501:My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone! ~ Lord Byron,

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

503:Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray. ~ Lord Byron,

504:My turn of mind is so given to taking things in the absurd point of view, that it breaks out in spite of me every now and then. ~ Lord Byron,

505:Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. ~ Lord Byron,

506:I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains. ~ Lord Byron,

507:I will not ask where thou liest low, Nor gaze upon the spot; There flowers or weeds at will may grow, So I behold them not ~ Lord Byron,

508:Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so. ~ Lord Byron,

509:Let there be light!” said God, and there was light! “Let there be blood!” says man, and there’s a sea! —Lord Byron, Don Juan ~ Robert Liparulo,

510:Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. ~ Lord Byron,

511:The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses that pull, Each tugs in a different way And the greatest of all is John Bull! ~ Lord Byron,

512:Always laugh when you can; it is cheap medicine. Merriment is a philosophy not well understood. It is the sunny side of existence. ~ Lord Byron,

513:But that wasn't fancy enough for Lord Byron, oh dear me no, he had to invent a lot of figures of speech and then interpolate them, ~ Ogden Nash,

514:Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal. ~ Lord Byron,

515:'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give, No hollow aid; alone - man with God must strive. ~ Lord Byron,

516:Even innocence itself has many a wile, And will not dare to trust itself with truth, And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. ~ Lord Byron,

517: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. ~ Lord Byron,

518:Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth, the Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. ~ Lord Byron,

519:There' s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay. ~ Lord Byron,

520: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. ~ Lord Byron,

521:I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law. ~ Lord Byron,

522:Revenge is as the tigers spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel. ~ Lord Byron,

523:Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ! ~ Lord Byron,

524:Love in full life and length, not love ideal, No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, But something better still, so very real... ~ Lord Byron,

525:Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! ~ Lord Byron,

526:On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the Glowing Hours with Flying feet ~ Lord Byron,

527: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. ~ Lord Byron,

528:And feeling, in a poet, is the source Of others' feeling; but they are such liars, And take all colours—like the hands of dyers. ~ Lord Byron,

529:A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands. ~ Lord Byron,

530:Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. ~ Lord Byron,

531:The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed. ~ Lord Byron,

532: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. ~ Lord Byron,

533:Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of the world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom. ~ Lord Byron,

534:Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. ~ Lord Byron,

535:Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, Sweet is revenge--especially to women ~ Lord Byron,

536:We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. ~ Lord Byron,

537:But I had not quite fixed whether to make him [Don Juan] end in Hell-or in an unhappy marriage,-not knowing which would be the severest. ~ Lord Byron,

538: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. ~ Lord Byron,

539:I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war. ~ Lord Byron,

540:Start not—nor deem my spirit fled: In me behold the only skull From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull. ~ Lord Byron,

541:I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture. ~ Lord Byron,

542:Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to lift from earth our low desire. ~ Lord Byron,

543:Byron!” exclaimed the little man. “Really? Dear me! Mad, and a friend of Lord Byron!” He sounded as if he did not know which was worse. ~ Susanna Clarke,

544:Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee - by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now. ~ Lord Byron,

545:...methinks the older that one grows, Inclines us more to laugh the scold, though laughter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. ~ Lord Byron,

546:The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns. ~ Lord Byron,

547:It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flatter; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship ~ Lord Byron,

548:On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the Glowing Hours with Flying feet. ~ Lord Byron,

549:We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. ~ Lord Byron,

550:But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think. ~ Lord Byron,

551:To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think. ~ Lord Byron,

552:As long as I retain my feeling and my passion for Nature, I can partly soften or subdue my other passions and resist or endure those of others. ~ Lord Byron,

553:To be fair he is Lord Byron," Jane said. "I don't know many people who haven't slept with him at one time or another." -- Jane Fairfax ~ Michael Thomas Ford,

554:And yet methinks the older that one grows Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. ~ Lord Byron,

555:There rose no day there rolled no hour Of pleasure unembittered; And not a trapping decked my Power That galled not while it glittered. ~ Lord Byron,

556: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. ~ Lord Byron,

557:And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain, But that, will make us weep the more. ~ Lord Byron,

558:I came to realize clearly that the mind is no other than the Mountain and the Rivers and the great wide Earth, the Sun and the Moon and the Sky”. ~ Lord Byron,

559:Lord Byron doesn’t have a life plan. He doesn’t have a day plan. I once found a note that he wrote to himself that said: 'put on pants. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

560:No more Keats, I entreat: flay him alive; if some of you don’t I must skin him myself: there is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the Mankin. ~ Lord Byron,

561:She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes. ~ Lord Byron,

562:forgive me also that I didn't fight like Lord Byron for the happiness of captive peoples that I watched only risings of the moon and museums ~ Zbigniew Herbert,

563:I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one. ~ Lord Byron,

564:Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, Wilt thou withstand the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven, His vulture and his rock! ~ Lord Byron,

565:Your thief looks Exactly like the rest, or rather better; 'Tis only at the bar, and in the dungeon, That wise men know your felon by his features. ~ Lord Byron,

566:But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think. ~ Lord Byron,

567:I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture. ~ Lord Byron,

568:The Mountains look on Marathon And Marathon looks to the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free... ~ Lord Byron,

569:I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another. ~ Lord Byron,

570:Though the day of my Destiny 's over, And the star of my Fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find. ~ Lord Byron,

571:What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought. ~ Lord Byron,

572:Gwynned lies two days westwards; still further south, the weregeld calls. Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour, my deeds may yet inspire the skalds. ~ Lord Byron,

573:In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee ~ Lord Byron,

574: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. ~ Lord Byron,

575:Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer. ~ Lord Byron,

576: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. ~ Lord Byron,

577: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 ~ Lord Byron,

578:The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. ~ Lord Byron,

579:The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. ~ Lord Byron,

580:But first on earth as vampire sent Thy corpse shall from its tomb be rent Then gastly haunt thy native place And suck the blood of all thy race ~ Lord Byron,

581:For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. ~ Lord Byron,

582: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. ~ Lord Byron,

583:'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;  A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. ~ Lord Byron, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers (1809), line 51.,

584:If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver. ~ Lord Byron,

585:Send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years . ~ Lord Byron,

586:VALENTINE: Are you talking about Lord Byron, the poet? BERNARD: No, you fucking idiot, we're talking about Lord Byron, the chartered accountant. ~ Tom Stoppard,

587:You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task. ~ John Keats,

588:But I hate things all fiction... there should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric - and pure invention is but the talent of a liar. ~ Lord Byron,

589:I cannot describe to you the despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems incapable or unwilling to do anything further for himself. ~ Lord Byron,

590:Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore. ~ Lord Byron,

591:I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels; make air instead of sea voyages; and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere. ~ Lord Byron,

592:In general I do not draw well with literary men -- not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication. ~ Lord Byron,

593:Man's love is of man's life a part; it is a woman's whole existence. In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love. ~ Lord Byron,

594:She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes... ~ Lord Byron,

595:The reason that adulation is not displeasing is that, though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to induce people to lie. ~ Lord Byron,

596:I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new. ~ Lord Byron,

597: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. ~ Lord Byron,

598:There are two Souls, whose equal flow In gentle stream so calmly run, That when they part—they part?—ah no! They cannot part—those Souls are One. ~ Lord Byron,

599:The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. ~ Lord Byron,

600:What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence. ~ Lord Byron,

601:Books, Manuals, Directives, Regulations. The geometries that circumscribe your working life draw norrower and norrower until nothing fits inside them anymore. ~ Lord Byron,

602:There is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state? ~ Lord Byron,

603:Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls. ~ Lord Byron,

604: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. ~ Lord Byron,

605:All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99 ~ Lord Byron,

606: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. ~ Lord Byron,

607: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. ~ Lord Byron,

608:And angling too, that solitary vice, What Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. ~ Lord Byron,

609:Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality. ~ Lord Byron,

610:Romantic poetry had its heyday when people like Lord Byron were kicking it large. But you try and make a living as a poet today, and you'll find it's very different! ~ Alan Moore,

611:Tenê di dema aştîyê de ye ku niştecîhê welatekî dikarin barê giran yê şer hest/hês bikin. .تەنیا لە کاتی ئاشتیدا، خەڵکی یەک وڵات، هەست بە باری قورسی شەڕ ئەکەن ~ Lord Byron,

612:Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear-- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue--at once her spear and shield. ~ Lord Byron,

613:Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean - roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin - his control Stops with the shore. ~ Lord Byron,

614:A man must serve his time to every trade, Save censure-critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote With just enough learning to misquote. ~ Lord Byron,

615: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. ~ Lord Byron,

616:Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone. ~ Lord Byron,

617: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. ~ Lord Byron,

618:I cannot conceive why people will always mix up my own character and opinions with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have the right and liberty to draw. ~ Lord Byron,

619:There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres. ~ Lord Byron,

620:Tyranny Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem None rebels except subjects? The prince who Neglects or violates his trust is more A brigand than the robber-chief. ~ Lord Byron,

621:But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of. ~ Lord Byron,

622:Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise. ~ Lord Byron,

623:Lord Byron ! Of course!” cried Dr Greysteel. “I forgot all about him! I must go and warn him to be discreet.” “I think it’s a little late for that, sir,” said Frank. ~ Susanna Clarke,

624:Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men. ~ Lord Byron,

625:Tis an old lesson; time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost. ~ Lord Byron,

626:Turning oneself to the misfortunes of others is the best way to dispense with personal troubles. Hadn’t Lord Byron himself said, “The busy have no time for tears”? ~ Martha Hall Kelly,

627:Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head? ~ Lord Byron,

628:There is no god but God! — to prayer — lo!  God is great! ~ Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto II (1812), Stanza 59, this is a translation of standard Islamic exclamations,

629:Too oft is a smile But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation or fear; Give me a soft sigh, Whilst the soultelling eye Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear ~ Lord Byron,

630:All present life is but an interjection, An “Oh!” or “Ah!” of joy or misery Or a “Ha, ha!” or “Bah!”—a yawn, or “Pooh!” Of which perhaps the latter is most true. —LORD BYRON ~ Mark Dunn,

631:I saw two beings in the hues of the youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill... And both were young-- and one was beautiful -The Dream, Canto II Lord Byron ~ Madeleine L Engle,

632:The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul! ~ Lord Byron,

633:Think how the joys of reading a Gazette Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Or if these do not move you, don't forget Such doom may be your own in aftertimes. ~ Lord Byron,

634:What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now. ~ Lord Byron,

635: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. ~ Lord Byron,

636:Ecclesiastes said that "all is vanity," Most modern preachers say the same, or show it By their examples of true Christianity: In short, all know, or very short may know it. ~ Lord Byron,

637: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. ~ Lord Byron,

638:I should be very willing to redress men wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, had not Cervantes, in that all too true tale of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. ~ Lord Byron,

639:We of the craft are all crazy,” Lord Byron, the high priest of crazies, wrote. “Some are affected by gaiety, others by melancholy, but all are more or less touched. ~ Siddhartha Mukherjee,

640:I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, - and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth, - thou livest forever! ~ Lord Byron,

641:In quiet we had learn'd to dwell- Myvery chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends- To make us what we are:-even I Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. ~ Lord Byron,

642:O ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain. ~ Lord Byron,

643:'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. ~ Lord Byron,

644:Wedded she some years, and to a man Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty; And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE 'Twere better to have TWO of five and twenty... ~ Lord Byron,

645: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. ~ Lord Byron,

646:The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. ~ Lord Byron,

647:Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. ~ Lord Byron,

648:Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave. ~ Lord Byron,

649:There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres. ~ Lord Byron,

650:There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears: Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. ~ Lord Byron,

651:To what gulfs A single deviation from the track Of human duties leads even those who claim The homage of mankind as their born due, And find it, till they forfeit it themselves! ~ Lord Byron,

652:In secret we met - In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? - With silence and tears ~ Lord Byron,

653:Lovers may be and indeed generally are enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations. ~ Lord Byron,

654:I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over. ~ Lord Byron,

655:Man is born passionate of body, but with an innate though secret tendency to the love of Good in his main-spring of Mind. But God help us all! It is at present a sad jar of atoms. ~ Lord Byron,

656: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. ~ Lord Byron,

657:He would gain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott and Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they had fallen in love over poetry. ~ Jane Austen,

658:I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,        The age discovers he is not the true one; ~ Lord Byron,

659:Lord Byron is an exceedingly interesting person, and as such is it not to be regretted that he is a slave to the vilest and most vulgar prejudices, and as mad as the winds? ~ Edmond de Goncourt,

660:The humblest individual under heaven,   Than might suffice a moderate century through. I knew that nought was lasting, but now even   Change grows too changeable without being new. ~ Lord Byron,

661: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. ~ Lord Byron,

662:But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless. ~ Lord Byron,

663:The lapse of ages changes all things - time, language, the earth, the bounds of the sea, the stars of the sky, and every thing about, around, and underneath man, except man himself. ~ Lord Byron,

664: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. ~ Lord Byron,

665:nature’s noblest gift – my grey goose-quill! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men! – Lord Byron ~ Julie Klassen,

666:The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul! ~ Lord Byron,

667:When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep,eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning -- how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse. ~ Lord Byron,

668:All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~ Lord ByronLord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99 ~ Lord Byron,

669:But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on. ~ Lord Byron,

670: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. ~ Lord Byron,

671:Tis strange,-but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold! ~ Lord Byron,

672:When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it. ~ Lord Byron,

673:Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,   Should, after all, our best endeavours fail;   Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live,   And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. ~ Lord Byron,

674: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. ~ Lord Byron,

675:I live, but live to die: and, living, see nothing to make death hateful, save an innate clinging, a loathsome and yet all invincible instinct of life, which I abhor, as I despise myself, ~ Lord Byron,

676:Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze; When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another. ~ Lord Byron,

677:Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,- Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best. ~ Lord Byron,

678:Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, 'Tis something better not to be. [First published, Childe Harold, 1812 ~ Lord Byron,

679:I think the worst woman that ever existed would have made a man of very passable reputation -- they are all better than us and their faults such as they are must originate with ourselves. ~ Lord Byron,

680: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. ~ Lord Byron,

681:I will keep no further journal of that same hesternal torch‐light ; and, to prevent me from returning, like a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining leaves of this volume... ~ Lord Byron,

682:Well, well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering winds shift, shift our sails. ~ Lord Byron,

683: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 ~ Lord Byron,

684: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. ~ Lord Byron,

685: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. ~ Lord Byron,

686:What an antithetical mind! - tenderness, roughness - delicacy, coarseness - sentiment, sensuality - soaring and groveling, dirt and deity - all mixed up in that one compound of inspired clay! ~ Lord Byron,

687:Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No," And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing. ~ Lord Byron,

688:Tis strange,-but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold! ~ Lord Byron,

689:Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime! ~ Lord Byron,

690:There are four questions of value in life, Don Octavio. What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love. ~ Lord Byron,

691:Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom? ~ Lord Byron,

692:You have to have a passion for your work. How can we expect people to be passionate if you, as their coach, does not have a passion? Coaching has to be something that gives you passion and energy. ~ Lord Byron,

693:But pomp and power alone are woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere; Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. ~ Lord Byron,

694: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. ~ Lord Byron,

695:There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more. ~ Lord Byron,

696:In secret we met - In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? - With silence and tears ~ Lord Byron,

697:It is true from early habit, one must make love mechanically as one swims; I was once very fond of both, but now as I never swim unless I tumble into the water, I don't make love till almost obliged. ~ Lord Byron,

698: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. ~ Lord Byron,

699:I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like a child stringing beads in kindergarten - happy, absorbed and quietly putting one bead on after another. ~ Brenda Ueland,

700:Tis the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filtered through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull ~ Lord Byron,

701:I know that two and two make four - and should be glad to prove it too if I could - though I must say if by any sort of process I could convert 2 and 2 into five it would give me much greater pleasure. ~ Lord Byron,

702:O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her. ~ Lord Byron,

703:Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey; Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy. ~ Lord Byron,

704:I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like a child stringing beads in kindergarten - happy, absorbed and quietly putting one bead on after another.    ~ Brenda Ueland,

705:And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. ~ Lord Byron,

706:I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end. ~ Lord Byron,

707:Alas! They were so young, so beautiful, so lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour was that in which the heart is always full, annd, having o'er itself no further power, prompts deeds eternity can not annul. ~ Lord Byron,

708:Shadow! or Spirit! Whatever thou art, Which still doth inherit The whole or a part Of the form of thy birth, Of the mould of thy clay, Which returned to the earth, Re-appear to the day! ~ Lord Byron,

709:We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most; why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals? ~ Lord Byron,

710:Whenever I meet with anything agreeable in this world it surprises me so much - and pleases me so much (when my passions are not interested in one way or the other) that I go on wondering for a week to come. ~ Lord Byron,

711:And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being. ~ Lord Byron,

712:So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death. ~ Lord Byron,

713:Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates - but pages might be filled up, as vainly as before, with the sad usage of all sorts of sages, who in his life-time, each was deemed a bore! The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages. ~ Lord Byron,

714:When I was 16, I wanted to look like Lord Byron. It's not really a haircut so much as a hair-not-cut, but I've never changed it. It's a bit Byron, a bit Don Juan DeMarco and other things that I aspire to be. ~ Jeremy Clarkson,

715:There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more ~ Lord Byron,

716:Ada’s mother, Anne, was a mathematician in her own right, and despite Lord Byron praising Anne as the “Princess of Parallelograms,” the two had a tumultuous relationship and young Ada never really met her father. Now ~ Sam Maggs,

717:Evil and Good are things in their own essebce and not made good or evil by the giver. but if he gives you good so cal him; if evil springs from him, do not name it mine till ye know better its true fount -Lucifer ~ Lord Byron,

718:For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! ~ Lord Byron,

719:The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain,” said Lord Byron, enunciating a basic Romantic idea and, perhaps, hoping that goblins, ghosts, and demons provided some necessary release ~ Shirley Jackson,

720: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] ~ Lord Byron,

721:My time has been passed viciously and agreeably—at thirty-one so few years months days hours or minutes remain that 'Carpe diem' is not enough—I have been obliged to crop even the seconds—for who can trust to tomorrow? ~ Lord Byron,

722:From the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a system of ethics compounded of misanthropy and voluptuousness,-a system in which the two great commandments were to hate your neighbour and to love your neighbour's wife. ~ Thomas B Macaulay,

723:It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal. ~ Lord Byron,

724:I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading about them, . . . that I think there should be a law amongst us to set our young men abroad for a term among the few allies our wars have left us. ~ Lord Byron,

725:Though [Abraham Lincoln] never would travel to Europe, he went with Shakespeare's kings to Merry England; he went with Lord Byron poetry to Spain and Portugal. Literature allowed him to transcend his surroundings. ~ Doris Kearns Goodwin,

726:Though [Abraham Lincoln] never would travel to Europe, he went with Shakespeare’s kings to Merry England; he went with Lord Byron poetry to Spain and Portugal. Literature allowed him to transcend his surroundings. ~ Doris Kearns Goodwin,

727:For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! ~ Lord Byron,

728:It is not with earth, though I must till it, I feel at war..but I may not profit of what it bears of beauty,untoiling, Nor gratify my thousands swelling thoughts with knowledge, Nor allay my thousand fears of death and life. ~ Lord Byron,

729:İnsan yaşamı kadının göğüsünden doğar, Onun dudaklarından öğrenirsiniz söylediğiniz ilk küçük sözcükleri, İlk gözyaşınızı da silen odur; Son saatinde, erkekler çekinirken küçük düşmekten Kendilerine önderlik edene. ~ Lord Byron,

730:My great comfort is, that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and prejudices. I have flattered no ruling powers; I have never concealed a single thought that tempted me. ~ Lord Byron,

731:A good coach encourages the same type of resilience in the people they work with. They encourage them to take risks. If the risk results in failure, they help all people to learn from the mistake and then go on to try another way. ~ Lord Byron,

732:Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken. Than those whereof such things the bard relates, Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium’s gates? ~ Lord Byron,

733:Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were; First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away--Is this the whole? ~ Lord Byron,

734:If a man proves too clearly and convincingly to himself...that a tiger is an optical illusion--well, he will find out he is wrong. The tiger will himself intervene in the discussion, in a manner which will be in every sense conclusive. ~ Lord Byron,

735:O time! The beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled— Time! The corrector where our judgments err, The test of truth, love, sole philosopher. —Lord Byron, Childe Harold IV, 1818 ~ Jack McDevitt,

736:Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy. ~ Lord Byron,

737:I have seen a thousand graves opened, and always perceived that whatever was gone, the teeth and hair remained of those who had died with them. Is not this odd? They go the very first things in youth and yet last the longest in the dust. ~ Lord Byron,

738:Woman! experience might have told me, That all must love thee who behold thee: Surely experience might have taught Thy firmest promises are nought: But, placed in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to adore thee. ~ Lord Byron,

739:Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime, The image of Eternity, -- the throne Of the Invisible! even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. ~ Lord Byron,

740: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. ~ Lord Byron,

741:But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race; There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life; ~ Lord Byron,

742:The sky is changed,-and such a change! O night And storm and darkness! ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder. ~ Lord Byron,

743:If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain. ~ Lord Byron,

744:My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men. ~ Lord Byron,

745:Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long leagues to trace, Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air, And life that bloated Ease can never hope to share. ~ Lord Byron,

746:Nothing so fretful, so despicable as a Scribbler, see what I am, and what a parcel of Scoundrels I have brought about my ears, and what language I have been obliged to treat them with to deal with them in their own way; - all this comes of Authorship. ~ Lord Byron,

747:Not to admire, is all the art I know To make men happy, or to keep them so. Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago; And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation; but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired? ~ Lord Byron,

748:But as to women, who can penetrate the real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate has much of selfishness and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, but form good housekeepers, to breed a nation. ~ Lord Byron,

749:Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, And shook within their pyramids to hear A new Cambyses thundering in their ear; While the dark shades of forty ages stood Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood. ~ Lord Byron,

750:Martin Buber suggested that evil prevailed because of the inability of man to imagine the real. Yet human beings do have that capacity. Lord Byron, a poet favored by Alfred Nobel, captured the stark essence of a post-nuclear world in his poem Darkness. ~ Bernard Lown,

751:What opposite discoveries we have seen! (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.) One makes new noses, one a guillotine, One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets; But vaccination certainly has been A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets. ~ Lord Byron,

752:The languages, especially the dead,  The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,  The arts, at least all such as could be said  To be the most remote from common use,  In all these he was much and deeply read. ~ Lord Byron, Don Juan (1818-24), Canto I, Stanza 40.,

753:Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue By female lips and eyes--that is, I mean, When both the teacher and the taught are young, As was the case, at least, where I have been; They smile so when one's right; and when one's wrong They smile still more. ~ Lord Byron,

754:And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled. ~ Lord Byron,

755:I have always laid it down as a maxim -and found it justified by experience -that a man and a woman make far better friendships than can exist between two of the same sex -but then with the condition that they never have made or are to make love to each other. ~ Lord Byron,

756:A material resurrection seems strange and even absurd except for purposes of punishment, and all punishment which is to revenge rather than correct must be morally wrong, and when the World is at an end, what moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures answer? ~ Lord Byron,

757:Let him! He is great but in his greatness he is no happier than we in our conflict! Goodness would not make evil; and what else hath he made? but let him sit on his vast solitary throne, creating worlds to make eternity less burthensome to his immense existence. ~ Lord Byron,

758:My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men. ~ Lord Byron,

759:I am no Platonist, I am nothing at all; but I would sooner be a Paulician, Manichean, Spinozist, Gentile, Pyrrhonian, Zoroastrian, than one of the seventy-two villainous sects who are tearing each other to pieces for the love of the Lord and hatred of each other. ~ Lord Byron,

760:Oh could I feel as I have felt,-or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me. ~ Lord Byron,

761:In large Victorian houses with many rooms and heavy doors, the occupants could be mysterious and exciting to one another in a way that those who live in rackety developments can never hope to be. Not even the lust of a Lord Byron could survive the fact of Levittown. ~ Gore Vidal,

762:Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain ~ Lord Byron,

763:Some have accused me of a strange design Against the creed and morals of this land, And trace it in this poem every line: I don't pretend that I quite understand My meaning when I would be very fine; But the fact is that I have nothing planned... ~ Lord Byron,

764:The music, and the banquet, and the wine-- The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers, The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments-- The white arms and the raven hair--the braids, And bracelets; swan-like bosoms, and the necklace, An India in itself, yet dazzling not. ~ Lord Byron,

765:I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour; my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England; if false, England was unfit for me. ~ Lord Byron,

766:Cripples are not the stuff of romance. Only Lord Byron, dragging his club foot, springs to mind as an exception to the rule, but such a failing in a man is regarded as interesting, even provocative, rather than disfiguring. Women must submit to a more exacting measure. ~ Mordecai Richler,

767:That which would not yield, nor could forget, Which, when it least appear'd to melt, Intensely thought, intensely felt: The deepest ice which ever froze Can only o'er the surface close; The living stream lies quick below, And flows--and cannot cease to flow. ~ Lord Byron,

768:Above or Love, Hope, Hate or Fear, It lives all passionless and pure: An age shall fleet like earthly year; Its years in moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing, O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly; A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die. ~ Lord Byron,

769:The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains--beautiful! I linger yet with nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man, and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness I learned the language of another world. ~ Lord Byron,

770:From the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with light his blended colors glow. . . . . The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring. ~ Lord Byron,

771: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. II For the sword outwears its sheath,     And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe,     And love itself have rest. III ~ Lord Byron,

772:Homage he has from all - but none from me... I battle it against him, as I battled in highest heaven - through all eternity, And the unfathomable gulfs of hades, and the interminable realms of space, And the infinity of endless ages... all, all will I dispute. -Lucifer ~ Lord Byron,

773: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, ~ Lord Byron,

774:The basis of your religion is injustice. The Son of God the pure, the immaculate, the innocent, is sacrificed for the guilty. This proves his heroism, but no more does away with man's sin than a school boy's volunteering to be flogged for another would exculpate a dunce from negligence. ~ Lord Byron,

775:Like other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then talky, then argumentative, then disputatious, then unintelligible, then altogether, then inarticulate, and then drunk. When we had reached the last step of this glorious ladder, it was difficult to get down again without stumbling. ~ Lord Byron,

776:Many are poets, but without the name; For what is Poesy but to create From overfeeling Good or Ill; and aim At an external life beyond our fate, And be the new Prometheus of new men, Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late, Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain ~ Lord Byron,

777:And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift; What is it but the telescope of truth? Which strips the distance of its fantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real! ~ Lord Byron,

778:The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains.—Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world. ~ Lord Byron,

779:Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd-- To fetters and damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom. ~ Lord Byron,

780:Above or Love, Hope, Hate or Fear, It lives all passionless and pure: An age shall fleet like earthly year; Its years in moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing, O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly; A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die. ~ Lord Byron,

781:The great object of life is sensation—to feel that we exist, even though in pain. It is this ‘craving void’ which drives us to gaming—to battle—to travel—to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description, whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment. ~ Lord Byron,

782:How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm! I thank thee, night! for thou has chased away these horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, I could not dissipate; and with the blessing of thy benign and quiet influence now will I to my couch, although to rest is almost wronging such a night as this. ~ Lord Byron,

783:It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer? ~ Lord Byron,

784:But ’tis done—all words are idle— Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle 55 Force their way without the will. Fare thee well! thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Sear’d in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die. ~ Lord Byron,

785:Prometheus-like from heaven she stole The fire that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll, From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: And as along her bosom steal In lengthened flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, And curled to give her neck caresses. ~ Lord Byron,

786:The castled crag of Drachenfels, Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine. ~ Lord Byron,

787:The great object of life is Sensation - to feel that we exist - even though in pain - it is this "craving void" which drives us to gaming - to battle - to travel - to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment. ~ Lord Byron,

788:There is something to me very softening in the presence of a woman, some strange influence, even if one is not in love with them, which I cannot at all account for, having no very high opinion of the sex. But yet, I always feel in better humor with myself and every thing else, if there is a woman within ken. ~ Lord Byron,

789:Where yet my boys are, and that fatal She, Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought Destruction for a dowry—this to see And feel, and know without repair, hath taught A bitter lesson; but it leaves me free: I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, They made an Exile—not a Slave of me. ~ Lord Byron,

790:And then he danced,-all foreigners excel the serious Angels in the eloquence of pantomime;-he danced, I say, right well, with emphasis, and a'so with good sense-a thing in footing indispensable: he danced without theatrical pretence, not like a ballet-master in the van of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. ~ Lord Byron,

791:========== If I Stay (Forman, Gayle) - Your Note on page 182 | Location 2191 | Added on Friday, September 26, 2014 4:01:31 PM We look before and after and pine for what is not. Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught. The sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Ode to a Skylark by Lord Byron? ~ Anonymous,

792:Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Botswain, a dog. ~ Lord Byron,

793:It is not one man nor a million, but the spirit of liberty that must be preserved. The waves which dash upon the shore are, one by one, broken, but the ocean conquers nevertheless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears out the rock. In like manner, whatever the struggle of individuals, the great cause will gather strength. ~ Lord Byron,

794:LUCIFER: They say what they must sing and say on pain Of being that which I am and thou art-- Of spirits and of men. CAIN: And what is that? LUCIFER: Souls who dare use their immortality, Souls who dare look the omnipotent tyrant in His everlasting face and tell him that His evil is not good! ~ Lord Byron,

795:Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader; Some by a place--as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. ~ Lord Byron,

796:Now Juan could not understand a word, Being no Grecian; but he had an ear, And her voice was the warble of a bird, ... So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard; The sort of sound we echo with a tear, Without knowing why - an overpowering tone, Whence Melody descends as from a throne. ~ Lord Byron,

797:Remember thee! remember thee! Till Lethe quench life's burning stream Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, And haunt thee like a feverish dream! Remember thee! Aye, doubt it not. Thy husband too shall think of thee: By neither shalt thou be forgot, Thou false to him, thou fiend to me! ~ Lord Byron,

798:A Man’s life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the Mystery of his life—a life like the scriptures, figurative—which such people can no more make out than they can the Hebrew Bible. Lord Byron cuts a figure but he is not figurative—Shakspeare led a life of Allegory: his works are the comments on it ~ John Keats,

799:Dull is the eye that will not weep to see- Thy walls defaced thy mouldering shines removed- by british hands, which it had best behoved- to guard those relics ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,- And once again thy hapless bossom gored- and snatch'd shrinking gods to northern climes abhorred. ~ Lord Byron,

800:The writer harked back to Lord Byron’s maiden speech in the House three years before: “I have been in some of the most oppressed provinces in Turkey, but never, under the most despotic of infidel Governments, did I behold such squalid wretchedness as I have seen since my return in the very heart of a Christian country.” Mrs. ~ Marion Chesney,

801:She loved her lord or thought so, but that love   Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move   Our feelings ‘gainst the nature of the soil. She had nothing to complain of or reprove,   No bickerings, no connubial turmoil; Their union was a model to behold, Serene and noble, conjugal, but cold. ~ Lord Byron,

802:This is the patent-age of new inventions For killing bodies, and for saving souls, All propagated with the best intentions; Sir Humphrey Davy's lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. ~ Lord Byron,

803:I loved - but those I loved are gone; Had friends - my early friends are fled: How cheerless feels the heart alone When all its former hopes are dead! Though gay companions o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, The heart - the heart - is lonely still. ~ Lord Byron,

804:This should have been a noble creature: he/ Hath all the energy which would have made/ A goodly frame of glorious elements,/ Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,/ It is an awful chaos-light and darkness-/ And mind and dust- and passions and pure thoughts,/ Mix'd, and contending without end or order,/ All dormant or destructive/ ~ Lord Byron,

805:Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice-- The weakness and the wickedness of luxury-- The negligence--the apathy--the evils Of sensual sloth--produces ten thousand tyrants, Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master, However harsh and hard in his own bearing. ~ Lord Byron,

806:Time and Nemesis will do that which I would not, were it in my power remote or immediate. You will smile at this piece of prophecy - do so, but recollect it: it is justified by all human experience. No one was ever even the involuntary cause of great evils to others, without a requital: I have paid and am paying for mine - so will you. ~ Lord Byron,

807:Man is a carnivorous production, And must have meals, at least one meal a day; He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey; Although his anatomical construction Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, Your laboring people think beyond all question, Beef, veal, and mutton better for digestion. ~ Lord Byron,

808:For all we know that English people are/ Fed upon beef - I won't say much of beer/ Because 'tis liquor only, and being far/ From this my subject, has no business here;/ We know too, they are very fond of war,/ A pleasure - like all pleasures - rather dear;/ So were the Cretans - from which I infer/ That beef and battle both were owing her ~ Lord Byron,

809:There is a commonplace book argument, Which glibly glides from every vulgar tongue When any dare a new light to present: 'If you are right, then everybody's wrong.' Suppose the converse of this precedent So often urged, so loudly and so long: 'If you are wrong, then everybody's right.' Was ever everybody yet so quite? ~ Lord Byron,

810:This was an easy matter with a man Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard; And even the wisest, do the best they can, Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, That you might 'brain them with their lady's fan;' And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, And why and wherefore no one understands. ~ Lord Byron,

811:Who knows whether, when a comet shall approach this globe to destroy it, as it often has been and will be destroyed, men will not tear rocks from their foundations by means of steam, and hurl mountains, as the giants are said to have done, against the flaming mass? - and then we shall have traditions of Titans again, and of wars with Heaven... ~ Lord Byron,

812:A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a fools-cap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town. ~ Lord Byron,

813:The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts, Is its own origin of ill and end, And its own place and time; its innate sense, When stripped of this mortality, derives No colour from the fleeting things without, But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, Born from the knowledge of its own desert. ~ Lord Byron,

814:But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream. ~ Lord Byron,

815:What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour: For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. ~ Lord Byron,

816:When Newton saw an apple fall, he found In that slight startle from his contemplation- 'Tis said (for I'll not answer above ground For any sage's creed or calculation)- A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round In a most natural whirl, called 'gravitation'; And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, Since Adam, with a fall, or with an apple. ~ Lord Byron,

817:The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants. ~ Lord Byron,

818:It would be difficult, perhaps, to find the annals of a nation less stained with crimes than those of the Armenians, whose virtues have been those of peace, and their vices those of compulsion. But whatever may have been their destiny and it has been bitter whatever it may be in future, their country must ever be one of the most interesting on the globe. ~ Lord Byron,

819:The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still the master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth, While man, vain insect hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. ~ Lord Byron,

820: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. ~ Lord Byron,

821:This place is the Devil, or at least his principal residence, they call it the University, but any other appellation would have suited it much better, for study is the last pursuit of the society; the Master eats, drinks, and sleeps, the Fellows drink, dispute and pun, the employments of the undergraduates you will probably conjecture without my description. ~ Lord Byron,

822:Sinjin was sitting bare-chested with Petra’s blue feather boa wrapped around his neck and draped over his shoulder. His long dark curls had been teased and sprayed into a sexy mane. Heavy black eyeliner rimmed his eyes. “Am I not gorgeous? I want to snog myself. I’m like a postmodern Lord Byron.” “You put the ironic in Byronic,” Petra quipped. “Well said, luv. ~ Libba Bray,

823:I could not tame my nature down; for he Must serve who fain would sway -- and soothe -- and sue -- And watch all time -- and pry into all place -- And be a living lie -- who would become A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such The mass are; I disdained to mingle with A herd, though to be leader -- and of wolves. The lion is alone, and so am I. ~ Lord Byron,

824:Here lies interred in the eternity of the past, from whence there is no resurrection for the days - whatever there may be for the dust - the thirty-third year of an ill-spent life, which, after a lingering disease of many months sank into a lethargy, and expired, January 22d, 1821, A.D. leaving a successor inconsolable for the very loss which occasioned its existence. ~ Lord Byron,

825:The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;—lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nutbrown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!—'Tis no sport for peasants. ~ Lord Byron,

826:Tis strange - but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction; if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold! How oft would vice and virtue places change! The new world would be nothing to the old, If some Columbus of the moral seas Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. ~ Lord Byron,

827:But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream. ~ Lord Byron,

828:He knew himself a villain—but he deem'd The rest no better than the thing he seem'd; And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. He knew himself detested, but he knew The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded too. Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt From all affection and from all contempt ~ Lord Byron,

829:And the small ripple spilt upon the beach Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain! Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please,—the more because they preach in vain,— Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after. ~ Lord Byron,

830: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. ~ Lord Byron,

831: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 'II 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. ~ Lord Byron,

832:But I being fond of true philosophy, Say very often to myself, 'Alas! All things that have been born were born to die, And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass; You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, And if you had it o'er again—'t would pass— So thank your stars that matters are no worse, And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse. ~ Lord Byron,

833:Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. How little do we know that which we are! How less what we may be! The eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge, Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves Of Empires heave but like some passing waves. ~ Lord Byron,

834:CREATED by an eighteen-year-old girl during the freakishly cold, rainy summer of 1816 while on holiday in Switzerland with her married lover, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and two other writers, the poet Lord Byron and John Polidori, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein would become the foundational work for two important new genres of literature—horror and science fiction. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,

835:Are we aware of our obligations to a mob? It is the mob that labor in your fields and serve in your houses - that man your navy, and recruit your army - that have enabled you to defy the world, and can also defy you when neglect and calamity have driven them to despair. You may call the people a mob; but do not forget that a mob too often speaks the sentiments of the people. ~ Lord Byron,

836:So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon. ~ Lord Byron,

837:When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, Let him combat for that of his neighbours; Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, And get knocked on the head for his labours. To do good to Mankind is the chivalrous plan, And is always as nobly requited; Then battle fro Freedom wherever you can, And, if not shot or hanged, you'll get knighted. ~ Lord Byron,

838:When we have made our love and gamed our gaming,   Drest, voted, shone, and maybe something more; With dandies dined, heard senators declaiming,   Seen beauties brought to market by the score, Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming,   There’s little left but to be bored or bore. Witness those ci-devant jeunes hommes who stem The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. ~ Lord Byron,

839:As to Don Juan, confess that it is the sublime of that there sort of writing; it may be bawdy, but is it not good English? It may be profligate, but is it not life, is it not the thing? Could any man have written it who has not lived in the world? and tooled in a post-chaise? in a hackney coach? in a Gondola? against a wall? in a court carriage? in a vis a vis? on a table? and under it? ~ Lord Byron,

840:There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell. But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! ~ Lord Byron,

841:I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand; I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles. ~ Lord Byron,

842:They say that Hope is happiness But genuine Love must prize the past; And Mem'ry wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose first -- they set the last. And all that mem'ry loves the most Was once our only hope to be: And all that hope adored and lost Hath melted into memory. Alas! It is delusion all-- The future cheats us from afar: Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are. ~ Lord Byron,

843:There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal. ~ Lord Byron,

844: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. ~ Lord Byron,

845:And thus they plod in sluggish misery, Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Bequeathing their hereditary rage To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and rather than be free, Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage Within the same arena where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. ~ Lord Byron,

846:I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one. It is a title dearly enough bought by most men, to render it endurable, even when not quite clearly made out, which it never can be till the Posterity, whose decisions are merely dreams to ourselves, has sanctioned or denied it, while it can touch us no further. ~ Lord Byron,

847:You talked about Nietzsche and his tertiary syphilis. Mozart and his uremia. Paul Klee and the scleroderma that shrank his joints and muscles to death. Frida Kahlo and the spina bifida that covered her legs with bleeding sores. Lord Byron and his clubfoot. The Brontë sisters and their tuberculosis. Mark Rothko and his suicide. Flannery O'Connor and her lupus. Inspiration needs disease, injury, madness. ~ Chuck Palahniuk,

848:There are two Italies.... The one is the most sublime and lovely contemplation that can be conceived by the imagination of man; the other is the most degraded, disgusting, and odious. What do you think? Young women of rank actually eat - you will never guess what - garlick! Our poor friend Lord Byron is quite corrupted by living among these people, and in fact, is going on in a way not worthy of him. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

849:But words are things, and a small drop of ink,       Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;       ’T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link       Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that’s his. ~ Lord Byron,

850:I have not loved the world, nor the world me, but let us part fair foes; I do believe, though I have found them not, that there may be words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, and virtues which are merciful, or weave snares for the failing: I would also deem o'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; that two, or one, are almost what they seem, that goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. ~ Lord Byron,

851:It is by far the most elegant worship, hardly excepting the Greek mythology. What with incense, pictures, statues, altars, shrines, relics, and the real presence, confession, absolution, - there is something sensible to grasp at. Besides, it leaves no possibility of doubt; for those who swallow their Deity, really and truly, in transubstantiation, can hardly find any thing else otherwise than easy of digestion. ~ Lord Byron,

852:Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires,-'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. ~ Lord Byron,

853:I have simplified my politics into an utter detestation of all existing governments; and, as it is the shortest and most agreeable and summary feeling imaginable, the first moment of an universal republic would convert me into an advocate for single and uncontradicted despotism. The fact is, riches are power, and poverty is slavery all over the earth, and one sort of establishment is no better, nor worse, for a people than another. ~ Lord Byron,

854:The lapse of ages changes all things - time - language - the earth - the bounds of the sea - the stars of the sky, and everything 'about, around, and underneath' man, except man himself, who has always been and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite variety of lives conduct but to death, and the infinity of wishes lead but to disappointment. All the discoveries which have yet been made have multiplied little but existence. ~ Lord Byron,

855:They say that Hope is happiness But genuine Love must prize the past; And Mem'ry wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose first -- they set the last. And all that mem'ry loves the most Was once our only hope to be: And all that hope adored and lost Hath melted into memory. Alas! It is delusion all-- The future cheats us from afar: Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are. ~ Lord Byron,

856:The causes that have made me wretched would probably not have discomposed, or, at least, more than discomposed, another. We are all differently organized; and that I feel acutely is no more my fault (though it is my misfortune) than that another feels not, is his. We did not make ourselves, and if the elements of unhappiness abound more in the nature of one man than another, he is but the more entitled to our pity and our forbearance. ~ Lord Byron,

857:Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee: Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Still would we kiss and kiss for ever; E'en though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavour: Could I desist? -ah! never-never. ~ Lord Byron,

858:But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race. There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life, Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims ere they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem. ~ Lord Byron,

859:O thou beautiful And unimaginable ether! and Ye multiplying masses of increased And still increasing lights! what are ye? what Is this blue wilderness of interminable Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden? Is your course measur'd for ye? Or do ye Sweep on in your unbounded revelry Through an aerial universe of endless Expansion,--at which my soul aches to think,-- Intoxicated with eternity. ~ Lord Byron,

860:You don't love a woman because she is beautiful, but she is beautiful because you love her. Never underestimate the power of love. The way to love anything is to realize it may be lost. The heart has its reasons that reason does not know at all. Music is love in search of a word. There is pleasure in the pathless woods; there is a rapture on the lonely shore; There is society, where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar. ~ Lord Byron,

861:Let us have wine and woman, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda water the day after. Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of life is but intoxication: Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk The hopes of all men, and of every nation; Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion: But to return--Get very drunk; and when You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then. ~ Lord Byron,

862: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.         What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou,         Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,         Invisible but gazing, as I glow         Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth. ~ Lord Byron,

863:We'll Go No More A-roving So, we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon. ~ Lord Byron,

864:There is an order Of mortals on the earth, who do become Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, Without the violence of warlike death; Some perishing of pleasure, some of study, Some worn with toil, some of mere weariness, Some of disease, and some insanity, And some of wither’d or of broken hearts; For this last is a malady which slays More than are number’d in the lists of Fate, Taking all shapes and bearing many names. ~ Lord Byron,

865:Let us have wine and woman, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda water the day after. Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of life is but intoxication: Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk The hopes of all men, and of every nation; Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion: But to return--Get very drunk; and when You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then. ~ Lord Byron,

866:I become a transparent eyeball,” wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson in “Nature.” “I am nothing; I see all.” Lord Byron called it “the feeling infinite”; Jack Kerouac, in Desolation Angels, “the one mind of infinity.” The French Catholic priest Charles de Foucauld, who spent fifteen years living in the Sahara Desert, said that in solitude “one empties completely the small house of one’s soul.” Merton wrote that “the true solitary does not seek himself, but loses himself.” This ~ Michael Finkel,

867:But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race. There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life, Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims ere they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem. ~ Lord Byron,

868:A Pig's-Eye View Of Literature The Lives and Times of John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron Byron and Shelley and Keats Were a trio of Lyrical treats. The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls, And Keats never was a descendant of earls, And Byron walked out with a number of girls, But it didn't impair the poetical feats Of Byron and Shelley, Of Byron and Shelley, Of Byron and Shelley and Keats. ~ Dorothy Parker,

869:Tragedy of childhood. Not infrequently, noble-minded and ambitious men have to endure their harshest struggle in childhood, perhaps by having to assert their characters against a low-minded father, who is devoted to pretense and mendacity, or by living, like Lord Byron, in continual struggle with a childish and wrathful mother. If one has experienced such struggles, for the rest of his life he will never get over knowing who has been in reality his greatest and most dangerous enemy. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

870:Sublime tobacco! which from east to west, Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's rest; Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides His hours, and rivals opium and his brides; Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand: Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; Like other charmers wooing the caress, More dazzlingly when daring in full dress; Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties Give me a cigar! ~ Lord Byron,

871:Too high for common selfishness , he could At times resign his own for others' good, But not in pity - not because he ought, But in some strange perversity of thought, That swayed him onward with a secred pride To do what few or none could do beside; And this same impulse would, in tempting time, Mislead his spirit equally to crime; So much he soared beyond, or sank beneath, The men with whom he felt condemned to breathe And longed by good or ill to seperate Himself from all who shared his mortal fate. ~ Lord Byron,

872:The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: Even as a broken mirror, which the glass In every fragment multiplies; and makes A thousand images of one that was, The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. ~ Lord Byron,

873:Pray tell me, can you make fast, After due search, your faith to any question? Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. Nothing more true than not to trust your senses; And yet what are your other evidences? For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, Except perhaps that you were born to die? And both may after all turn out untrue. An age may come, Font of Eternity, When nothing shall be either old or new. ~ Lord Byron,

874:She was like me in lineaments-- her eyes Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty; She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind To comprehend the universe: nor these Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, Pity, and smiles, and tears-- which I had not; And tenderness-- but that I had for her; Humility-- and that I never had. Her faults were mine-- her virtues were her own-- I loved her, and destroy'd her! ~ Lord Byron,

875:I am, as far as I can tell, about a month behind Lord Byron. In every town we stop at we discover innkeepers, postillions, officials, burghers, potboys, and all kinds and sorts of ladies whose brains still seem somewhat deranged from their brief exposure to his lordship. And though my companions are careful to tell people that I am that dreadful being, an English magician, I am clearly nothing in comparison to an English poet and everywhere I go I enjoy the reputation- quite new to me, I assure you- of the quiet, good Englishman, who makes no noise and is no trouble to any one... ~ Susanna Clarke,

876:She was like me in lineaments-- her eyes Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty; She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind To comprehend the universe: nor these Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, Pity, and smiles, and tears-- which I had not; And tenderness-- but that I had for her; Humility-- and that I never had. Her faults were mine-- her virtues were her own-- I loved her, and destroy'd her! ~ Lord Byron,

877:I have not written for their pleasure... I have never flattered their opinions, nor their pride; nor will I. Neither will I make "Ladies' books" al dilettar le femine e la plebe. I have written from the fulness of my mind, from passion, from impulse, from many sweet motives, but not for their "sweet voices." I know the precise worth of popular applause, for few scribblers have had more of it; and if I chose to swerve into their paths, I could retain it, or resume it. But I neither love ye, nor fear ye; and though I buy with ye and sell with ye, I will neither eat with ye, drink with ye, nor pray with ye. ~ Lord Byron,

878:Tis long since I beheld that eye Which gave me bliss or misery; And I have striven, but in vain, Never to think of it again: For though I fly from Albion, I still can only love but one. As some lone bird, without a mate, My weary heart is desolate; I look around, and cannot trace One friendly smile or welcome face, And ev'n in crowds am still alone, Because I cannot love but one. And I will cross the whitening foam, And I will seek a foreign home; Till I forget a false fair face, I ne'er shall find a resting-place; My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, But ever love, and love but one. ~ Lord Byron,

879:She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all A heart whose love is innocent! ~ Lord Byron,

880:They accuse me--Me--the present writer of The present poem--of--I know not what,-- A tendency to under-rate and scoff At human power and virtue, and all that; And this they say in language rather rough. Good God! I wonder what they would be at! I say no more than has been said in Dante's Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes; By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault; By Fenelon, by Luther and by Plato; By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 'Tis not their fault, nor mine, if this be so-- For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, Nor even Diogenes.--We live and die, But which is best, you know no more than I. ~ Lord Byron,

881:She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! ~ Lord Byron,

882:Can it be, thought I, that my sole mission on earth is to destroy the hopes of others? Ever since I began to live and act, fate has somehow associated me with the last act of other people's tragedies, as if without me no one could either die or give way to despair! I have been the inevitable character who comes in at the final act, involuntarily playing the detestable role of the hangman or the traitor. What has been fate's object in all this? Has it destined me to be the author of middle-class tragedies and family romances--or a purveyor of tales for, say, the Reader's Library? Who knows? Are there not many who begin life by aspiring to end it like Alexander the Great, or Lord Byron, and yet remain petty civil servants all their lives? ~ Mikhail Lermontov,

883:T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end To strife; 't is 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 plucked—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 filched for us from Heaven. ~ Lord Byron,

884:Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end; For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, Like Lucifer when hurled from Heaven for sinning; Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, Being Pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, Till our own weakness shows us what we are. But Time, which brings all beings to their level, And sharp Adversity, will teach at last Man,—and, as we would hope,—perhaps the Devil, That neither of their intellects are vast: While Youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, We know not this—the blood flows on too fast; But as the torrent widens towards the Ocean, We ponder deeply on each past emotion. ~ Lord Byron,

885:The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift Untainted back to thine. Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see: The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me. I ask no pledge to make me blest In gazing when alone; Nor one memorial for a breast, Whose thoughts are all thine own. Nor need I write --- to tell the tale My pen were doubly weak: Oh ! what can idle words avail, Unless the heart could speak ? By day or night, in weal or woe, That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show, And silent ache for thee. ~ Lord Byron,

886:You said how Michelangelo was a manic-depressive who portrayed himself as a flayed martyr in his painting. Henri Matisse gave up being a lawyer because of appendicitis. Robert Schumann only began composing after his right hand became paralyzed and ended his career as a concert pianist. (...) You talked about Nietzsche and his tertiary syphilis. Mozart and his uremia. Paul Klee and the scleroderma that shrank his joints and muscles to death. Frida Kahlo and the spina bifida that covered her legs with bleeding sores. Lord Byron and his clubfoot. The Bronte sisters and their tuberculosis. Mark Rothko and his suicide. Flannery O’Connor and her lupus. Inspiration needs disease, injury, madness. “According to Thomas Mann,” Peter said, “‘Great artists are great invalids. ~ Chuck Palahniuk,

887:I wasn’t sure whether he was a grad student, poet, actor, stripper, or brilliant combination of all those things. But the man knew Lord Byron, and he knew words. He knew the rise and fall of sentences, the way to pause, the moment to look up, catch our gazes, smile. He knew emphasis and speed, pacing and clarity. He was a prince of poetry, and he had us mesmerized. Champagne was uncorked and dunked into gleaming silver chalices of ice, then poured into tall, thin glasses while we listened, legs crossed and perched forward in our chairs. “Is it better if we’re objectifying his body and his brain?” Margot asked, lifting the thin straw in her gin and tonic for a sip. “I don’t much care,” Mallory said. “He gives good word.” I couldn’t have put it better myself. ~ Chloe Neill,

888: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! ~ Lord Byron,

889:8. "For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour? Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. 9. "And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea: But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again, He'd tear me where he stands. 10. "With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! My native Land — Good Night! ~ Lord Byron,

890:When We Two Parted When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow— It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me— Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met— In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears. ~ Lord Byron,

891:Smoke was a person with a sense of history. Do you know what I mean?" ...in truth, I DID know what she meant. Da Vinci, Martin Luther King, Jr., Genghis Kahn, Abraham Lincoln, Bette Davis - if you read their definitive biographies, you learned even when they were a month old, cooing in some wobbly crib in the middle of nowhere, they already had something historic about them. The way other kids had baseball, long division, Hot Wheels, and hula hoops, these kids had History and thus tended to be prone to colds, unpopular, sometimes plagued with a physical deformity (Lord Byron's clubfoot, Maugham's severe stutter, for example), which pushed them into exile in their heads. It was there they began to dream of human anatomy, civil rights, conquering Asia, a lost speech and being (within a span of four years) a jezebel, a marked woman, a little fox and an old maid. ~ Marisha Pessl,

892:In those days, even in European countries, death had a solemn social importance. It was not regarded as a moment when certain bodily organs ceased to function, but as a dramatic climax, a moment when the soul made its entrance into the next world, passing in full consciousness through a lowly door to an unimaginable scene. Among the watchers there was always the hope that the dying man might reveal something of what he alone could see; that his countenance, if not his lips, would speak, and on his features would fall some light or shadow from beyond. The “Last Words” of great men, Napoleon, Lord Byron, were still printed in gift-books, and the dying murmurs of every common man and woman were listened for and treasured by their neighbors and kinsfolk. These sayings, no matter how unimportant, were given oracular significance and pondered by those who must one day go the same road. ~ Willa Cather,

893:In those days, even in European countries, death had a solemn social importance. It was not regarded as a moment when certain bodily organs ceased to function, but as a dramatic climax, a moment when the soul made its entrance into the next world, passing in full consciousness through a lowly door to an unimaginable scene. Among the watchers there was always the hope that the dying man might reveal something of what he alone could see; that his countenance, if not his lips, would speak, and on his features would fall some great light or shadow from beyond. The “Last Words” of great men, Napoleon, Lord Byron, were still printed in gift-books, and the dying murmurs of every common man or woman were listened for and treasured by their neighbours and kinsfolk. These sayings, no matter how unimportant, were given oracular significance and pondered by those who must one day go the same road. ~ Willa Cather,

894:…the rising movement of romanticism, with its characteristic idealism, one that tended toward a black-and-white view of the world based on those ideas, preferred for different reasons that women remain untinged by “masculine” traits of learning. Famous romantic writers such as Lord Byron, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and William Hazlitt criticized the bluestockings. …and Hazlitt declared his 'utter aversion to Bluestockingism … I do not care a fig for any woman that knows even what an author means.' Because of the tremendous influence that romanticism gained over the cultural mind-set, the term bluestocking came to be a derogatory term applied to learned, pedantic women, particularly conservative ones. ... Furthermore, learned women did not fit in with the romantic notion of a damsel in distress waiting to be rescued by a knight in shining armor any more than they fit in with the antirevolutionary fear of progress. ~ Karen Swallow Prior,

895:Ovde sam veoma srećan jer volim pomorandže i govorim loš latinski s fratrima koji ga razumeju pošto je i njihov takav, i odlazim u društva (s mojim džepnim pištoljima), i preplivavam reku Tažuu jednom mahu, i jašem na magarcu ili mazgi, i psujem na portugalskom, i imam proliv, i komarci su me izujedali. Ali šta to mari ? Ljudi koji krenu na put iz zadovoljstva ne treba da očekuju udobnost. Kad su Portugalci drski, ja uzviknem carracho! – tu krupnu psovku velike gospode koja zamenjuje naše “prokletstvo”, a kad mi sused nije po volji kažem za njega da je ambra di mierdo. Sa ta dva izraza, i trećim, avra bouro, što znači “nabavi mi magarca”, svi shvataju da sam otmen gospodin i da znam strane jezike. Kako mi putnici veselo živimo! Kad bismo samo imali hrane i džebane! Ali, ozbiljno i tužno, sve je bolje od Engleske, i ja sam se do sada izvanredno zabavljao na ovom putešestviju. Bajron Frensisu Hodžsonu, Lisabon, 16. Juli 1809. ~ Lord Byron,

896:No one embodied the spirit of the frontier more than Daniel Boone, who faced and defeated countless natural and man-made dangers to literally hand cut the trail west through the wilderness. He marched with then colonel George Washington in the French and Indian War, established one of the most important trading posts in the West, served three terms in the Virginia Assembly, and fought in the Revolution. His exploits made him world famous; he served as the model for James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales and numerous other pioneer stories. He was so well known and respected that even Lord Byron, in his epic poem Don Juan, wrote, “Of the great names which in our faces stare, The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky, Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere …” And yet he was accused of treason—betraying his country—the most foul of all crimes at the time. What really happened to bring him to that courtroom? And was the verdict reached there correct? ~ Bill O Reilly,

897:Have you ever plunged into the immensity of space and time by reading the geological treatises of Cuvier? Borne away on the wings of his genius, have you hovered over the illimitable abyss of the past as if a magician's hand were holding you aloft? As one penetrates from seam to seam, from stratum to stratum and discovers, under the quarries of Montmartre or in the schists of the Urals, those animals whose fossilized remains belong to antediluvian civilizations, the mind is startled to catch a vista of the milliards of years and the millions of peoples which the feeble memory of man and an indestructible divine tradition have forgotten and whose ashes heaped on the surface of our globe, form the two feet of earth which furnish us with bread and flowers. Is not Cuvier the greatest poet of our century? Certainly Lord Byron has expressed in words some aspects of spiritual turmoil; but our immortal natural historian has reconstructed worlds from bleached bones. ~ Honor de Balzac,

898:Reality is a very subjective affair. I can only define it as a kind of gradual accumulation of information; and as specialization. If we take a lily, for instance, or any other kind of natural object, a lily is more real to a naturalist than it is to an ordinary person. But it is still more real to a botanist. And yet another stage of reality is reached with that botanist who is a specialist in lilies. You can get nearer and nearer, so to speak, to reality; but you never get near enough because reality is an infinite succession of steps, levels of perception, false bottoms, and hence unquenchable, unattainable. You can know more and more about one thing but you can never know everything about one thing: it’s hopeless. So that we live surrounded by more or less ghostly objects— that machine, there, for instance. It’s a complete ghost to me— I don’t understand a thing about it and, well, it’s a mystery to me, as much of a mystery as it would be to Lord Byron. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,

899:XXII. By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest The indistinctness of the suffering breast; Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one,    1810 Which seeks from all the refuge found in none; No words suffice the secret soul to show, For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. On Conrad’s stricken soul Exhaustion prest, And Stupor almost lulled it into rest; So feeble now — his mother’s softness crept To those wild eyes, which like an infant’s wept: It was the very weakness of his brain, Which thus confessed without relieving pain. None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen,    1820 That useless flood of grief had never been: Nor long they flowed — he dried them to depart, In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart: The Sun goes forth, but Conrad’s day is dim: And the night cometh — ne’er to pass from him. There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, On Grief’s vain eye — the blindest of the blind! Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide! ~ Lord Byron,

900:You are 'the best of cut-throats:'--do not start; The phrase is Shakespeare's, and not misapplied:-- War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, Unless her cause by Right be sanctified. If you have acted once a generous part, The World, not the World's masters, will decide, And I shall be delighted to learn who, Save you and yours, have gained by Waterloo? I am no flatterer--you've supped full of flattery: They say you like it too--'tis no great wonder: He whose whole life has been assault and battery, At last may get a little tired of thunder; And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he May like being praised for every lucky blunder; Called 'Saviour of the Nations'--not yet saved, And Europe's Liberator--still enslaved. I've done. Now go and dine from off the plate Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, And send the sentinel before your gate A slice or two from your luxurious meals: He fought, but has not fed so well of late... ~ Lord Byron,

901:‎Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world, a boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence. Sleep hath its own world, and a wide realm of wild reality; and dreams in their development have breath, and tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy. They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, they take a weight off our waking toils. They do divide our being; they become a portion of ourselves as of our time, and look like heralds of eternity. They pass like spirits of the past—they speak like sibyls of the future; they have power— the tyranny of pleasure and of pain. They make us what we were not—what they will, and shake us with the vision that’s gone by, the dread of vanished shadows—Are they so? Is not the past all shadow?—What are they? Creations of the mind?—The mind can make substances, and people planets of their own, with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dreamed, perchance in sleep—for in itself a thought, a slumbering thought, is capable of years, and curdles a long life into one hour. ~ Lord Byron,

902:My Dearest Theresa, I have read this book in your garden, my love, you were absent, or else I could not have read it. It is a favourite book of mine. You will not understand these English words, and others will not understand them, which is the reason I have not scrawled them in Italian. But you will recognize the handwriting of him who passionately loved you, and you will divine that, over a book that was yours, he could only think of love. In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours, Amor mio, is comprised my existence here and thereafter. I feel I exist here, and I feel that I shall exist hereafter – to what purpose you will decide; my destiny rests with you, and you are a woman, eighteen years of age, and two out of a convent, I wish you had stayed there, with all my heart, or at least, that I had never met you in your married state. But all this is too late. I love you, and you love me, at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last is a great consolation in all events. But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you. Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and ocean divide us, but they never will, unless you wish it. ~ Lord Byron,

903:Abhed, my father had called heredity-"indivisible." There is an old trope in popular culture of the "crazy genius," a mind split between madness and brilliance, oscillating between the two states at the throw of a single switch. But Rajesh had no switch. There was no split or oscillation, no pendulum. The magic and the mania were perfectly contiguous-bordering kingdoms with no passports. They were part of the same whole, indivisible. "We of the craft are all crazy," Lord Byron, the high priest of crazies, wrote. "Some are affected by gaiety, others by melancholy, but all are more or less touched." Versions of this story have been tool, over and over, with bipolar disease, with some variants of schizophrenia, and with rare cases of autism; all are "more or less touched." It is tempting to romanticize psychotic illness, so let me emphasize that the men and women with these mental disorders experience paralyzing cognitive, social, and psychological disturbances that send gashes of devastation through their lives. But also indubitably, some patients with these syndromes possess exceptional and unusual abilities. The effervescence of bipolar disease has long been linked to extraordinary creativity; at times, the heightened creative impulse is manifest during the throes of mania. ~ Siddhartha Mukherjee,

904:Odlazim u inostranstvo; ako bude mogućno krenuću u proleće, ali pre polaska skupljam slike svojih najboljih školskih drugova; imam ih već nekoliko i treba mi još tvoja, inače će moja zbirka biti nepotpuna. Uzeo sam jednog od prvih slikara minijaturista našeg vremena da ih uradi, naravno o mom trošku pošto nikad ne dopuštam da moji poznanici budu izloženi ma i najmanjem izdatku radi zadovoljavanja nekih mojih ćudi. Može ti se učiniti nedelikatno što sam ovo pomenuo, ali kad ti kažem da je jedan naš zajednički prijatelj najpre odbio da pozira za portret verujući da će morati da plati iz svog džepa, uvidećeš da je nužno reći to odmah kako bi se izbegle druge slične greške. Videćemo se blagovremeno i ja ću te odvesti slikaru. Tvoje strpljenje će biti stavljeno na probu nedelju dana, ali molim te oprosti jer je mogućno da će ta slika biti jedino što će mi ostati od našeg negdašnjeg poznanstva i prijateljstva. Sad u ovom trenutku, to može izgledati neozbiljno, ali za nekoliko godina, kad neki od nas već budu mrtvi, a drugi rastavljeni neumitnim okolnostima, za nas će predstavljati izvesno zadovoljstvo to što ćemo u tim slikama živih sačuvati neku predstavu o sebi samima i što ćemo u slikama umrilh videti sve što je ostalo od rasuđivanja, osećanja i svakojakih strasti. Bajron - pismo Vilijemu Harnesu, marta 1809. ~ Lord Byron,

905:On Reading The Controversy Between Lord Byron And Mr Bowles WHETHER a ship's poetic? -- Bowles would own, If here he dwelt, where Nature is prosaic, Unpicturesque, unmusical, and where Nature-reflecting Art is not yet born; -A land without antiquities, with one, And only one, poor spot of classic ground, (That on which Cook first landed) -- where, instead Of heart-communings with ancestral relicks, Which purge the pride while they exalt the mind, We've nothing left us but anticipation, Better (I grant) than utter selfishness, Yet too o'erweening -- too American; Where's no past tense, the ign'rant present's all; Or only great by the All hail, hereafter! One foot of Future's glass should rest on Past; Where Hist'ry is not, Prophecy is guess -If here he dwelt, Bowles (I repeat) would own A ship's the only poetry we see. For, first, she brings us "news of human kind," Of friends and kindred, whom perchance she held As visitors, that she might be a link, Connecting the fond fancy of far friendship, A few short months before, and whom she may In a few more, perhaps, receive again. Next is a ship poetic, forasmuch As in this spireless city and prophane, She is to my home-wand'ring phantasy, With her tall anch'ring masts, a three-spir'd minster, Van-crown'd; her bell our only half-hour chimes. Lastly, a ship is poetry to me, Since piously I trust, in no long space, Her wings will bear me from this prose-dull land. ~ Barron Field,

906:Two aspects of thinking in particular are pronounced in both creative and hypomanic thought: fluency, rapidity, and flexibility of thought on the one hand, and the ability to combine ideas or categories of thought in order to form new and original connections on the other. The importance of rapid, fluid, and divergent thought in the creative process has been described by most psychologists and writers who have studied human imagination. The increase in the speed of thinking may exert its influence in different ways. Speed per se, that is, the quantity of thoughts and associations produced in a given period of time, may be enhanced. The increased quantity and speed of thoughts may exert an effect on the qualitative aspects of thought as well; that is, the sheer volume of thought can produce unique ideas and associations. Indeed, Sir Walter Scott, when discussing Byron's mind, commented: "The wheels of a machine to play rapidly must not fit with the utmost exactness else the attrition diminishes the Impetus." The quickness and fire of Byron's mind were not lost on others who knew him. One friend wrote: "The mind of Lord Byron was like a volcano, full of fire and wealth, sometimes calm, often dazzling and playful, but ever threatening. It ran swift as the lightning from one subject to another, and occasionally burst forth in passionate throes of intellect, nearly allied to madness." Byron's mistress, Teresa Guiccoli, noted: "New and striking thoughts followed from him in rapid succession, and the flame of genius lighted up as if winged with wildfire. ~ Kay Redfield Jamison,

907:Near this Spot are deposited the Remains of one who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the virtues of Man without his Vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery if inscribed over human Ashes, is but a just tribute to the Memory of Boatswain, a Dog who was born in Newfoundland May 1803 and died at Newstead Nov. 18th, 1808 When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth, Unknown to Glory, but upheld by Birth, The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below. When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been. But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth – While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power – Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust, Degraded mass of animated dust! Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit! By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye, who behold perchance this simple urn, Pass on – it honours none you wish to mourn. To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise; I never knew but one -- and here he lies. ~ Lord Byron,

908:FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN A Song Fill the goblet again! for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core; Let us drink! — who would not? — since, through life’s varied round, In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have bask’d in the beam of a dark rolling eye; I have loved! — who has not? — but what heart can declare That pleasure existed while passion was there? In the days of my youth, when the heart’s in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends! — who has not? — but what tongue will avow, That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst change; Thou grow’st old — who does not? — but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years? Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to our idol below, We aree jealous! — who is not? — thou hast no such alloy; For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. Then the season of youth and its vanities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; There we find — do we not? — in the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the box of Pandora was opened on earth, And Misery’s triumph commenced over Mirth, Hope was left, — was she not? — but the goblet we kiss, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden our own: We must die — who shall not? — May our sins be forgiven, And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. ~ Lord Byron,

909:Stanzas On The Death Of Lord Byron He was, and is not! Graecia's trembling shore, Sighing through all her palmy groves, shall tell That Harold's pilgrimage at last is o'er— Mute the impassioned tongue, and tuneful shell, That erst was wont in noblest strains to swell— Hush'd the proud shouts that rode Aegaea's wave! For lo! the great Deliv'rer breathes farewell! Gives to the world his mem'ry and a grave— Expiring in the land he only lived to save! Mourn, Hellas, mourn! and o'er thy widow'd brow, For aye, the cypress wreath of sorrow twine; And in thy new-form'd beauty, desolate, throw The fresh-cull'd flowers on his sepulchral shrine. Yes! let that heart whose fervour was all thine, In consecrated urn lamented be! That generous heart where genius thrill'd divine, Hath spent its last most glorious throb for thee— Then sank amid the storm that made thy children free! Britannia's Poet! Graecia's hero, sleeps! And Freedom, bending o'er the breathless clay, Lifts up her voice, and in her anguish weeps! For us, a night hath clouded o'er our day, And hush'd the lips that breath'd our fairest lay. Alas! and must the British lyre resound A requiem, while the spirit wings away Of him who on its strings such music found, And taught its startling chords to give so sweet a sound! The theme grows sadder — but my soul shall find A language in those tears! No more — no more! Soon, 'midst the shriekings of the tossing wind, The 'dark blue depths' he sang of, shall have bore Our all of Byron to his native shore! His grave is thick with voices — to the ear Murm'ring an awful tale of greatness o'er; But Memory strives with Death, and lingering near, Shall consecrate the dust of Harold's lonely bier! 215 ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

910:He was presented to her as Spencer Perceval, the Prime Minister of England. Kassandra stiffened as he bent over her hand. Mercifully, he released her swiftly but then proceeded to speak with exaggerated enunciation as though he presumed “foreign” and “slow” were synonymous. “I do hope your stay will be pleasant, Your Highness.” “Thank you, Prime Minister, I am quite assured that it will be. England is a delightful conjunction of seeming conflicts and contradictions, don’t you think?” Perceval frowned, taken by surprise and unsure how to respond. “Well, as to that-“ “After all, the culture that has produced that astonishing novel Sense and Sensibility and Lord Byron’s…ummm…affecting work within the space of just a few short months can hardly be considered merely a self-aggrandizing island with delusions of empire, can it?” “I suppose not; that is to say?” “Do excuse us, Prime Minister,” Alex interjected smoothly. “I am sure you will understand there are so many waiting to meet Her Highness.” As he guided her toward the next eager greeter, Alex murmured, “Pray do try to remember we are not actually attempting to incite war with England.” Kassandra shrugged, feeling better since she had set down that vile Perceval. “Didn’t you suspect the Prime Minister of plotting an invasion of Akora just last year?” Her brother cast her a sharp look. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.” “For pity’s sake…” “All right, yes I did, but he was soundly discouraged by the Prince Regent himself. There is no reason to have any further concern in that regard.” Kassandra did not answer. She had her own thoughts on the subject and was not ye ready to share them. The introductions continued. Too soon, her head throbbed and the small of her back ached, but she kept her smile firmly in place. When the gong sounded for dinner, she resisted the urge to sag with relief. ~ Josie Litton,

911:He was presented to her as Spencer Perceval, the Prime Minister of England. Kassandra stiffened as he bent over her hand. Mercifully, he released her swiftly but then proceeded to speak with exaggerated enunciation as though he presumed “foreign” and “slow” were synonymous. “I do hope your stay will be pleasant, Your Highness.” “Thank you, Prime Minister, I am quite assured that it will be. England is a delightful conjunction of seeming conflicts and contradictions, don’t you think?” Perceval frowned, taken by surprise and unsure how to respond. “Well, as to that-“ “After all, the culture that has produced that astonishing novel Sense and Sensibility and Lord Byron’s…ummm…affecting work within the space of just a few short months can hardly be considered merely> a self-aggrandizing island with delusions of empire, can it?” “I suppose not; that is to say?” “Do excuse us, Prime Minister,” Alex interjected smoothly. “I am sure you will understand there are so many waiting to meet Her Highness.” As he guided her toward the next eager greeter, Alex murmured, “Pray do try to remember we are not actually attempting to incite war with England.” Kassandra shrugged, feeling better since she had set down that vile Perceval. “Didn’t you suspect the Prime Minister of plotting an invasion of Akora just last year?” Her brother cast her a sharp look. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.” “For pity’s sake…” “All right, yes I did, but he was soundly discouraged by the Prince Regent himself. There is no reason to have any further concern in that regard.” Kassandra did not answer. She had her own thoughts on the subject and was not ye ready to share them. The introductions continued. Too soon, her head throbbed and the small of her back ached, but she kept her smile firmly in place. When the gong sounded for dinner, she resisted the urge to sag with relief. ~ Josie Litton,

912:The Dream Lord Byron Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off waking toils, They do divide our being; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity; They pass like spirits of the past -they speak Like sibyls of the future; they have power - The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; They make us what we were not -what they will, And shake us with the vision that's gone by, The dread of vanished shadows -Are they so? Is not the past all shadow? -What are they? Creations of the mind? -The mind can make Substances, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dreamed Perchance in sleep -for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a long life into one hour. ---------- Il sogno Lord Byron Duplice è la nostra vita: il Sonno ha il suo proprio mondo, un confine tra le cose chiamate impropriamente morte e esistenza: il Sonno ha il proprio mondo, e un vasto reame di sfrenata realtà; e nel loro svolgersi i sogni hanno respiro, e lacrime e tormenti e sfiorano la gioia; lasciano un peso sui nostri pensieri da svegli, tolgono un peso dalle nostre fatiche da svegli, dividono il nostro essere; diventano parte di noi stessi e del nostro tempo, e sembrano gli araldi dell'eternità; passano come fantasmi del passato, parlano come Sibille dell'avvenire; hanno potere - la tirannia del piacere e del dolore; ci rendono ciò che non fummo, secondo il loro volere, e ci scuotono con dissolte visioni, col terrore di svanite ombre. Ma sono veramente così? Non è forse tutto un'ombra il passato? Cosa sono? Creazioni della mente? La mente sa creare sostanza, e popolare pianeti, di sua fattura, di esseri più splendenti di quelli mai esistiti, e dare respiro e forma che sopravvivono alla carne. Vorrei richiamare una visione che ho sognato forse nel sonno, poiché in sé un pensiero, un pensiero assopito, racchiude anni, e in un'ora condensa una lunga vita. ~ Lord Byron,

913:Você, Lord Byron, é inteligente também, mas uma inteligência fina, penetrante, como aço, como uma espada. Ao contrário de mim, você é mais capaz de se fazer amado do que de amar. Sua lógica é irresistível, mas impiedosa, irritante. É desses remédios que matam a doença e o doente. Você tem sentimento poético, e muito — no entanto é incapaz de escrever um verso que preste. Por quê? Sei lá. Há qualquer coisa que te contém, que te segura, como uma mão. Sua compreensão do mundo, da vida e das coisas é surpreendente, seu olho clínico é infalível, mas você é um homem refreado, bem comportado, bem educado, flor do asfalto, lírio de salão, um príncipe, o nosso Príncipe de Gales, como diz o Hugo. Tem uma aura de pureza não conspurcada, mas é ascético demais, aprimorado demais, debilitado por excesso de tratamento. Não se contamina nunca, e isso humilha a todo mundo. É esportivo, é atlético, é saudável, prevenido contra todas as doenças, mas, um dia, não vai resistir a um simples resfriado: há de cair de cama e afinal descobrir que para o vírus da gripe ainda não existe antibiótico. — Opinião de estudante de Medicina — e Eduardo pro- curava ocultar seu ressentimento com um sorriso. — Você, agora. (...) — E você, Eduardo. Você, o puro, o intocado, o que se preserva, como disse Mauro. Seu horror ao compromisso porque você se julga um comprometido, tem uma missão a cumprir, é um escritor. Você e sua simpatia, sua saúde... Bem sucedido em tudo, mas cheio de arestas que ferem sem querer. Seu ar de quem está sempre indo a um lugar que não é aqui, para se encontrar com alguém que não somos nós. Seu desprezo pelos fracos porque se julga forte, sua inteligência incômoda, sua explicação para tudo, seu senso prático — tudo orgulho. O orgulho de ser o primeiro — a vida, para você, é um campeonato de natação. Sua desenvoltura, sua excitação mental, sua fidelidade a um destino certo, tudo isso faz de você presa certa do demônio — mesmo sua vocação para o ascetismo, para a vida áspera, espartana. Você e seus escritores ingleses, você e sua chave que abre todas as portas. Orgulho: você e seu orgulho. De nós três, o de mais sorte, o escolhido, nosso amparo, nossa esperança. E de nós três, talvez, o mais miserável, talvez o mais desgraçado, porque condenado à incapacidade de amar, pelo orgulho, ou à solidão, pela renúncia. Hugo não disse mais nada. E os três, agora, não ousavam levantar a cabeça, para não mostrar que estavam chorando. O garçom veio saber se queriam mais chope, ninguém o atendeu. Alguém soltou uma gargalhada no fundo do bar. Lá fora, na rua, um bonde passou com estrépito. ~ Fernando Sabino,

914:On The Proposal To Erect A Monument In England To Lord Byron The grass of fifty Aprils hath waved green Above the spent heart, the Olympian head, The hands crost idly, the shut eyes unseen, Unseeing, the locked lips whose song hath fled; Yet mystic-lived, like some rich, tropic flower, His fame puts forth fresh blossoms hour by hour; Wide spread the laden branches dropping dew On the low, laureled brow misunderstood, That bent not, neither bowed, until subdued By the last foe who crowned while he o'erthrew. Fair was the Easter Sabbath morn when first Men heard he had not wakened to its light: The end had come, and time had done its worst, For the black cloud had fallen of endless night. Then in the town, as Greek accosted Greek, 'T was not the wonted festal words to speak, 'Christ is arisen,' but 'Our chief is gone,' With such wan aspect and grief-smitten head As when the awful cry of 'Pan is dead!' Filled echoing hill and valley with its moan. 'I am more fit for death than the world deems,' So spake he as life's light was growing dim, And turned to sleep as unto soothing dreams. What terrors could its darkness hold for him, Familiar with all anguish, but with fear Still unacquainted? On his martial bier They laid a sword, a helmet, and a crownMeed of the warrior, but not these among His voiceless lyre, whose silent chords unstrung Shall wait-how long?-for touches like his own. An alien country mourned him as her son, And hailed him hero: his sole, fitting tomb Were Theseus' temple or the Parthenon, Fondly she deemed. His brethren bare him home, 135 Their exiled glory, past the guarded gate Where England's Abbey shelters England's great. Afar he rests whose very name hath shed New lustre on her with the song he sings. So Shakespeare rests who scorned to lie with kings, Sleeping at peace midst the unhonored dead. And fifty years suffice to overgrow With gentle memories the foul weeds of hate That shamed his grave. The world begins to know Her loss, and view with other eyes his fate. Even as the cunning workman brings to pass The sculptor's thought from out the unwieldy mass Of shapeless marble, so Time lops away The stony crust of falsehood that concealed His just proportions, and, at last revealed, The statue issues to the light of day, Most beautiful, most human. Let them fling The first stone who are tempted even as he, And have not swerved. When did that rare soul sing The victim's shame, the tyrant's eulogy, The great belittle, or exalt the small, Or grudge his gift, his blood, to disenthrall The slaves of tyranny or ignorance? Stung by fierce tongues himself, whose rightful fame Hath he reviled? Upon what noble name Did the winged arrows of the barbed wit glance? The years' thick, clinging curtains backward pull, And show him as he is, crowned with bright beams, 'Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful As he hath been or might be; Sorrow seems Half of his immortality.' He needs No monument whose name and song and deeds Are graven in all foreign hearts; but she His mother, England, slow and last to wake, Needs raise the votive shaft for her fame's sake: Hers is the shame if such forgotten be! 136 ~ Emma Lazarus,

915:76. David Hume – Treatise on Human Nature; Essays Moral and Political; An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding 77. Jean-Jacques Rousseau – On the Origin of Inequality; On the Political Economy; Emile – or, On Education, The Social Contract 78. Laurence Sterne – Tristram Shandy; A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy 79. Adam Smith – The Theory of Moral Sentiments; The Wealth of Nations 80. Immanuel Kant – Critique of Pure Reason; Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals; Critique of Practical Reason; The Science of Right; Critique of Judgment; Perpetual Peace 81. Edward Gibbon – The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire; Autobiography 82. James Boswell – Journal; Life of Samuel Johnson, Ll.D. 83. Antoine Laurent Lavoisier – Traité Élémentaire de Chimie (Elements of Chemistry) 84. Alexander Hamilton, John Jay, and James Madison – Federalist Papers 85. Jeremy Bentham – Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation; Theory of Fictions 86. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe – Faust; Poetry and Truth 87. Jean Baptiste Joseph Fourier – Analytical Theory of Heat 88. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel – Phenomenology of Spirit; Philosophy of Right; Lectures on the Philosophy of History 89. William Wordsworth – Poems 90. Samuel Taylor Coleridge – Poems; Biographia Literaria 91. Jane Austen – Pride and Prejudice; Emma 92. Carl von Clausewitz – On War 93. Stendhal – The Red and the Black; The Charterhouse of Parma; On Love 94. Lord Byron – Don Juan 95. Arthur Schopenhauer – Studies in Pessimism 96. Michael Faraday – Chemical History of a Candle; Experimental Researches in Electricity 97. Charles Lyell – Principles of Geology 98. Auguste Comte – The Positive Philosophy 99. Honoré de Balzac – Père Goriot; Eugenie Grandet 100. Ralph Waldo Emerson – Representative Men; Essays; Journal 101. Nathaniel Hawthorne – The Scarlet Letter 102. Alexis de Tocqueville – Democracy in America 103. John Stuart Mill – A System of Logic; On Liberty; Representative Government; Utilitarianism; The Subjection of Women; Autobiography 104. Charles Darwin – The Origin of Species; The Descent of Man; Autobiography 105. Charles Dickens – Pickwick Papers; David Copperfield; Hard Times 106. Claude Bernard – Introduction to the Study of Experimental Medicine 107. Henry David Thoreau – Civil Disobedience; Walden 108. Karl Marx – Capital; Communist Manifesto 109. George Eliot – Adam Bede; Middlemarch 110. Herman Melville – Moby-Dick; Billy Budd 111. Fyodor Dostoevsky – Crime and Punishment; The Idiot; The Brothers Karamazov 112. Gustave Flaubert – Madame Bovary; Three Stories 113. Henrik Ibsen – Plays 114. Leo Tolstoy – War and Peace; Anna Karenina; What is Art?; Twenty-Three Tales 115. Mark Twain – The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn; The Mysterious Stranger 116. William James – The Principles of Psychology; The Varieties of Religious Experience; Pragmatism; Essays in Radical Empiricism 117. Henry James – The American; The Ambassadors 118. Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche – Thus Spoke Zarathustra; Beyond Good and Evil; The Genealogy of Morals;The Will to Power 119. Jules Henri Poincaré – Science and Hypothesis; Science and Method 120. Sigmund Freud – The Interpretation of Dreams; Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis; Civilization and Its Discontents; New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis 121. George Bernard Shaw – Plays and Prefaces ~ Mortimer J Adler,

916:I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,   Had not yet lost those starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept     A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves: For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted oer the green. There was wide wandring for the greediest eye,     To peer about upon variety; Far round the horizons crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint, and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;   Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free As though the fanning wings of Mercury Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,     And many pleasures to my vision started; So I straightway began to pluck a posey Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy. A bush of May flowers with the bees about them; Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;     And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. A filbert hedge with wildbriar overtwined,     And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind Upon their summer thrones; there too should be The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, That with a score of light green breth[r]en shoots From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:   Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn That such fair clusters should be rudely torn From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly     By infant hands, left on the path to die. Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds! Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, For great Apollo bids     That in these days your praises should be sung On many harps, which he has lately strung; And when again your dewiness he kisses, Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses: So haply when I rove in some far vale,     His mighty voice may come upon the gale. Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight: With wings of gentle flush oer delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.   Linger awhile upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlets rushy banks, And watch intently Natures gentle doings: They will be found softer than ring-doves cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend;     Not the minutest whisper does it send To the oerhanging sallows: blades of grass Slowly across the chequerd shadows pass. Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach     A natural sermon oer their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their wavy bodies gainst the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams Temperd with coolness. How they ever wrestle     With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. If you but scantily hold out the hand, That very instant not one will remain; But turn your eye, and they are there again.     The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, And cool themselves among the emrald tresses; The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, And moisture, that the bowery green may live: So keeping up an interchange of favours,     Like good men in the truth of their behaviours. Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches; little space they stop; But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek; Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:     Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. Were I in such a place, I sure should pray That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away, Than the soft rustle of a maidens gown     Fanning away the dandelions down; Than the light music of her nimble toes Patting against the sorrel as she goes. How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught Playing in all her innocence of thought.     O let me lead her gently oer the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look; O let me for one moment touch her wrist; Let me one moment to her breathing list; And as she leaves me may she often turn     Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne. What next? A tuft of evening primroses, Oer which the mind may hover till it dozes; Oer which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that tis ever startled by the leap     Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting; Or by the moon lifting her silver rim Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim Coming into the blue with all her light.     O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers; Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,     Lover of loneliness, and wandering, Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! Thee must I praise above all other glories That smile us on to tell delightful stories. For what has made the sage or poet write     But the fair paradise of Natures light? In the calm grandeur of a sober line, We see the waving of the mountain pine; And when a tale is beautifully staid, We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:   When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings: Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; Oerhead we see the jasmine and sweet briar,   And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles Charms us at once away from all our troubles: So that we feel uplifted from the world, Walking upon the white clouds wreathd and curld.     So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment; What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips First touchd; what amorous and fondling nips They gave each others cheeks; with all their sighs,   And how they kist each others tremulous eyes: The silver lamp,the ravishment,the wonder The darkness,loneliness,the fearful thunder; Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Joves throne.   So did he feel, who pulld the boughs aside, That we might look into a forest wide, To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades Coming with softest rustle through the trees; And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,     Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet: Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. Poor Nymph,poor Pan,how did he weep to find, Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind     Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain, Full of sweet desolationbalmy pain. What first inspired a bard of old to sing Narcissus pining oer the untainted spring? In some delicious ramble, he had found   A little space, with boughs all woven round; And in the midst of all, a clearer pool Than eer reflected in its pleasant cool, The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.   And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride, Drooping its beauty oer the watery clearness, To woo its own sad image into nearness: Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;     But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, Some fainter gleamings oer his fancy shot; Nor was it long ere he had told the tale Of young Narcissus, and sad Echos bale.   Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, Coming ever to bless The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing     Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing From out the middle air, from flowery nests, And from the pillowy silkiness that rests Full in the speculation of the stars. Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;   Into some wondrous region he had gone, To search for thee, divine Endymion! He was a Poet, sure a lover too, Who stood on Latmus top, what time there blew Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;   And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow A hymn from Dians temple; while upswelling, The incense went to her own starry dwelling. But though her face was clear as infants eyes, Though she stood smiling oer the sacrifice,     The Poet wept at her so piteous fate, Wept that such beauty should be desolate: So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen   Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen! As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. O for three words of honey, that I might Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!   Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels, And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes, Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. The evening weather was so bright, and clear,   That men of health were of unusual cheer; Stepping like Homer at the trumpets call, Or young Apollo on the pedestal: And lovely women were as fair and warm, As Venus looking sideways in alarm.   The breezes were ethereal, and pure, And crept through half closed lattices to cure The languid sick; it coold their feverd sleep, And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting: And springing up, they met the wondring sight Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight; Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare, And on their placid foreheads part the hair.   Young men, and maidens at each other gazd With hands held back, and motionless, amazd To see the brightness in each others eyes; And so they stood, filld with a sweet surprise, Until their tongues were loosd in poesy.   Therefore no lover did of anguish die: But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, Made silken ties, that never may be broken. Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses, That followd thine, and thy dear shepherds kisses: Was there a Poet born?but now no more, My wandring spirit must no further soar. I stood tip-toe upon a little hill : Leigh Hunt tells us in 'Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries' that "this poem was suggested to Keats by a delightful summer's-day, as he stood beside the gate that leads from the Battery on Hampstead Heath into a field by Caen Wood." (lines 37-41) Of this passage Hunt says, "Any body who has seen a throng of young beeches, furnishing those natural clumpy seats at the root, must recognize the truth and grace of this description." He adds that the remainder of the poem, especially verses 47 to 86, "affords an exquisite proof of close observation of nature as well as the most luxuriant fancy." (lines 61-80) Charles Cowden Clarke says Keats told him this passage was the recollection of the friends' "having frequently loitered over the rail of a foot-bridge that spanned ... a little brook in the last field upon entering Edmonton." Keats, he says, "thought the picture correct, and acknowledged to a partiality for it." ~The Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill ,

917:I rode one evening with Count Maddalo Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow Of Adria towards Venice: a bare strand Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand, Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds, Such as from earth's embrace the salt ooze breeds, Is this; an uninhabited sea-side, Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, Abandons; and no other object breaks The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes A narrow space of level sand thereon, Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went down. This ride was my delight. I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be: And such was this wide ocean, and this shore More barren than its billows; and yet more Than all, with a remembered friend I love To ride as then I rode;for the winds drove The living spray along the sunny air Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare, Stripped to their depths by the awakening north; And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth Harmonising with solitude, and sent Into our hearts areal merriment. So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift thought. Winging itself with laughter, lingered not, But flew from brain to brain,such glee was ours. Charged with light memories of remembered hours. None slow enough for sadness: till we came Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame. This day had been cheerful but cold, and now The sun was sinking, and the wind also. Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be Talk interrupted with such raillery As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn The thoughts it would extinguish:'twas forlorn, Yet pleasing, such as once, so poets tell, The devils held within the dales of Hell Concerning God, freewill and destiny: Of all that earth has been or yet may be, All that vain men imagine or believe, Or hope can paint or suffering may achieve, We descanted, and I (for ever still Is it not wise to make the best of ill?) Argued against despondency, but pride Made my companion take the darker side. The sense that he was greater than his kind Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blind By gazing on its own exceeding light. Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight, Over the horizon of the mountains;Oh, How beautiful is sunset, when the glow Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee, Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy! Thy mountains, seas, and vineyards, and the towers Of cities they encircle!it was ours To stand on thee, beholding it: and then, Just where we had dismounted, the Count's men Were waiting for us with the gondola. As those who pause on some delightful way Though bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood Looking upon the evening, and the flood Which lay between the city and the shore. Paved with the image of the sky . . . the hoar And ary Alps towards the North appeared Through mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark reared Between the East and West; and half the sky Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew Down the steep West into a wondrous hue Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent Among the many-folded hills: they were These famous Euganean hills, which bear, As seen from Lido thro' the harbour piles, The likeness of a clump of peakd isles And thenas if the Earth and Sea had been Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen Those mountains towering as from waves of flame Around the vaporous sun, from which there came The inmost purple spirit of light, and made Their very peaks transparent. 'Ere it fade,' Said my companion, 'I will show you soon A better station'so, o'er the lagune We glided; and from that funereal bark I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark How from their many isles, in evening's gleam, Its temples and its palaces did seem Like fabrics of enchantment piled to Heaven. I was about to speak, when'We are even Now at the point I meant,' said Maddalo, And bade the gondolieri cease to row. 'Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well If you hear not a deep and heavy bell.' I looked, and saw between us and the sun A building on an island; such a one As age to age might add, for uses vile, A windowless, deformed and dreary pile; And on the top an open tower, where hung A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung; We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue: The broad sun sunk behind it, and it tolled In strong and black relief.'What we behold Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower,' Said Maddalo, 'and ever at this hour Those who may cross the water, hear that bell Which calls the maniacs, each one from his cell, To vespers.''As much skill as need to pray In thanks or hope for their dark lot have they To their stern maker,' I replied. 'O ho! You talk as in years past,' said Maddalo. ''Tis strange men change not. You were ever still Among Christ's flock a perilous infidel, A wolf for the meek lambsif you can't swim Beware of Providence.' I looked on him, But the gay smile had faded in his eye. 'And such,'he cried, 'is our mortality. And this must be the emblem and the sign Of what should be eternal and divine! And like that black and dreary bell, the soul, Hung in a heaven-illumined tower, must toll Our thoughts and our desires to meet below Round the rent heart and prayas madmen do For what? they know not,till the night of death As sunset that strange vision, severeth Our memory from itself, and us from all We sought and yet were baffled.' I recall The sense of what he said, although I mar The force of his expressions. The broad star Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill, And the black bell became invisible, And the red tower looked gray, and all between The churches, ships and palaces were seen Huddled in gloom;into the purple sea The orange hues of heaven sunk silently. We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola Conveyed me to my lodging by the way. The following morn was rainy, cold and dim: Ere Maddalo arose, I called on him, And whilst I waited with his child I played; A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made, A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being, Graceful without design and unforeseeing, With eyesOh speak not of her eyes!which seem Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleam With such deep meaning, as we never see But in the human countenance: with me She was a special favourite: I had nursed Her fine and feeble limbs when she came first To this bleak world; and she yet seemed to know On second sight her ancient playfellow, Less changed than she was by six months or so; For after her first shyness was worn out We sate there, rolling billiard balls about, When the Count entered. Salutations past 'The word you spoke last night might well have cast A darkness on my spiritif man be The passive thing you say, I should not see Much harm in the religions and old saws (Tho' I may never own such leaden laws) Which break a teachless nature to the yoke: Mine is another faith'thus much I spoke And noting he replied not, added: 'See This lovely child, blithe, innocent and free; She spends a happy time with little care, While we to such sick thoughts subjected are As came on you last nightit is our will That thus enchains us to permitted ill We might be otherwisewe might be all We dream of happy, high, majestical. Where is the love, beauty, and truth we seek But in our mind? and if we were not weak Should we be less in deed than in desire?' 'Ay, if we were not weakand we aspire How vainly to be strong!' said Maddalo: 'You talk Utopia.' 'It remains to know,' I then rejoined, 'and those who try may find How strong the chains are which our spirit bind; Brittle perchance as straw . . . We are assured Much may be conquered, much may be endured, Of what degrades and crushes us. We know That we have power over ourselves to do And sufferwhat, we know not till we try; But something nobler than to live and die So taught those kings of old philosophy Who reigned, before Religion made men blind; And those who suffer with their suffering kind Yet feel their faith, religion.' 'My dear friend,' Said Maddalo, 'my judgement will not bend To your opinion, though I think you might Make such a system refutation-tight As far as words go. I knew one like you Who to this city came some months ago, With whom I argued in this sort, and he Is now gone mad,and so he answered me, Poor fellow! but if you would like to go We'll visit him, and his wild talk will show How vain are such aspiring theories.' 'I hope to prove the induction otherwise, And that a want of that true theory, still, Which seeks a "soul of goodness" in things ill Or in himself or others, has thus bowed His beingthere are some by nature proud, Who patient in all else demand but this To love and be beloved with gentleness; And being scorned, what wonder if they die Some living death? this is not destiny But man's own wilful ill.'               As thus I spoke Servants announced the gondola, and we Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea Sailed to the island where the madhouse stands. We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands, Fierce yells and howlings and lamentings keen, And laughter where complaint had merrier been, Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blaspheming prayers Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs Into an old courtyard. I heard on high, Then, fragments of most touching melody, But looking up saw not the singer there Through the black bars in the tempestuous air I saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace growing, Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, and flowing, Of those who on a sudden were beguiled Into strange silence, and looked forth and smiled Hearing sweet sounds.Then I: 'Methinks there were A cure of these with patience and kind care, If music can thus move . . . but what is he Whom we seek here?' 'Of his sad history I know but this,' said Maddalo: 'he came To Venice a dejected man, and fame Said he was wealthy, or he had been so; Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe; But he was ever talking in such sort As you dofar more sadlyhe seemed hurt, Even as a man with his peculiar wrong, To hear but of the oppression of the strong, Or those absurd deceits (I think with you In some respects, you know) which carry through The excellent impostors of this earth When they outface detectionhe had worth, Poor fellow! but a humourist in his way' 'Alas, what drove him mad?' 'I cannot say: A lady came with him from France, and when She left him and returned, he wandered then About yon lonely isles of desert sand Till he grew wildhe had no cash or land Remaining,the police had brought him here Some fancy took him and he would not bear Removal; so I fitted up for him Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim, And sent him busts and books and urns for flowers, Which had adorned his life in happier hours, And instruments of musicyou may guess A stranger could do little more or less For one so gentle and unfortunate: And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight From madmen's chains, and make this Hell appear A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.' 'Nay, this was kind of youhe had no claim, As the world says''Nonebut the very same Which I on all mankind were I as he Fallen to such deep reverse;his melody Is interruptednow we hear the din Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin; Let us now visit him; after this strain He ever communes with himself again, And sees nor hears not any.' Having said These words we called the keeper, and he led To an apartment opening on the sea There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully Near a piano, his pale fingers twined One with the other, and the ooze and wind Rushed through an open casement, and did sway His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray; His head was leaning on a music book, And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook; His lips were pressed against a folded leaf In hue too beautiful for health, and grief Smiled in their motions as they lay apart As one who wrought from his own fervid heart The eloquence of passion, soon he raised His sad meek face and eyes lustrous and glazed And spokesometimes as one who wrote, and thought His words might move some heart that heeded not, If sent to distant lands: and then as one Reproaching deeds never to be undone With wondering self-compassion; then his speech Was lost in grief, and then his words came each Unmodulated, cold, expressionless, But that from one jarred accent you might guess It was despair made them so uniform: And all the while the loud and gusty storm Hissed through the window, and we stood behind Stealing his accents from the envious wind Unseen. I yet remember what he said Distinctly: such impression his words made. 'Month after month,' he cried, 'to bear this load And as a jade urged by the whip and goad To drag life on, which like a heavy chain Lengthens behind with many a link of pain! And not to speak my griefO, not to dare To give a human voice to my despair, But live and move, and, wretched thing! smile on As if I never went aside to groan, And wear this mask of falsehood even to those Who are most dearnot for my own repose Alas! no scorn or pain or hate could be So heavy as that falsehood is to me But that I cannot bear more altered faces Than needs must be, more changed and cold embraces, More misery, disappointment, and mistrust To own me for their father . . . Would the dust Were covered in upon my body now! That the life ceased to toil within my brow! And then these thoughts would at the least be fled; Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead. 'What Power delights to torture us? I know That to myself I do not wholly owe What now I suffer, though in part I may. Alas! none strewed sweet flowers upon the way Where wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain My shadow, which will leave me not again If I have erred, there was no joy in error, But pain and insult and unrest and terror; I have not as some do, bought penitence With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence, For then,if love and tenderness and truth Had overlived hope's momentary youth, My creed should have redeemed me from repenting; But loathd scorn and outrage unrelenting Met love excited by far other seeming Until the end was gained . . . as one from dreaming Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state Such as it is.          'O Thou, my spirit's mate Who, for thou art compassionate and wise, Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see My secret groans must be unheard by thee, Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to know Thy lost friend's incommunicable woe. 'Ye few by whom my nature has been weighed In friendship, let me not that name degrade By placing on your hearts the secret load Which crushes mine to dust. There is one road To peace and that is truth, which follow ye! Love sometimes leads astray to misery. Yet think not though subduedand I may well Say that I am subduedthat the full Hell Within me would infect the untainted breast Of sacred nature with its own unrest; As some perverted beings think to find In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind Which scorn or hate have woundedO how vain! The dagger heals not but may rend again . . . Believe that I am ever still the same In creed as in resolve, and what may tame My heart, must leave the understanding free, Or all would sink in this keen agony Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry; Or with my silence sanction tyranny; Or seek a moment's shelter from my pain In any madness which the world calls gain, Ambition or revenge or thoughts as stern As those which make me what I am; or turn To avarice or misanthropy or lust . . . Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust! Till then the dungeon may demand its prey, And Poverty and Shame may meet and say Halting beside me on the public way "That love-devoted youth is ourslet's sit Beside himhe may live some six months yet." Or the red scaffold, as our country bends, May ask some willing victim, or ye friends May fall under some sorrow which this heart Or hand may share or vanquish or avert; I am preparedin truth with no proud joy To do or suffer aught, as when a boy I did devote to justice and to love My nature, worthless now! . . .                  'I must remove A veil from my pent mind. 'Tis torn aside! O, pallid as Death's dedicated bride, Thou mockery which art sitting by my side, Am I not wan like thee? at the grave's call I haste, invited to thy wedding-ball To greet the ghastly paramour, for whom Thou hast deserted me . . . and made the tomb Thy bridal bed . . . But I beside your feet Will lie and watch ye from my winding sheet Thus . . . wide awake tho' dead . . . yet stay, O stay! Go not so soonI know not what I say Hear but my reasons . . I am mad, I fear, My fancy is o'erwrought . . thou art not here. . . Pale art thou, 'tis most true . . but thou art gone, Thy work is finished . . . I am left alone! 'Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breast Which, like a serpent, thou envenomest As in repayment of the warmth it lent? Didst thou not seek me for thine own content? Did not thy love awaken mine? I thought That thou wert she who said, "You kiss me not Ever, I fear you do not love me now" In truth I loved even to my overthrow Her, who would fain forget these words: but they Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away. 'You say that I am proudthat when I speak My lip is tortured with the wrongs which break The spirit it expresses . . . Never one Humbled himself before, as I have done! Even the instinctive worm on which we tread Turns, though it wound notthen with prostrate head Sinks in the dusk and writhes like meand dies? No: wears a living death of agonies! As the slow shadows of the pointed grass Mark the eternal periods, his pangs pass Slow, ever-moving,making moments be As mine seemeach an immortality! 'That you had never seen menever heard My voice, and more than all had ne'er endured The deep pollution of my loathed embrace That your eyes ne'er had lied love in my face That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root With mine own quivering fingers, so that ne'er Our hearts had for a moment mingled there To disunite in horrorthese were not With thee, like some suppressed and hideous thought Which flits athwart our musings, but can find No rest within a pure and gentle mind . . . Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word, And searedst my memory o'er them,for I heard And can forget not . . . they were ministered One after one, those curses. Mix them up Like self-destroying poisons in one cup, And they will make one blessing which thou ne'er Didst imprecate for, on me,death.                    'It were A cruel punishment for one most cruel, If such can love, to make that love the fuel Of the mind's hell; hate, scorn, remorse, despair: But mewhose heart a stranger's tear might wear As water-drops the sandy fountain-stone, Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan For woes which others hear not, and could see The absent with the glance of phantasy, And with the poor and trampled sit and weep, Following the captive to his dungeon deep; Mewho am as a nerve o'er which do creep The else unfelt oppressions of this earth, And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth, When all beside was coldthat thou on me Shouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony Such curses are from lips once eloquent With love's too partial praiselet none relent Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name Henceforth, if an example for the same They seek . . . for thou on me lookedst so, and so And didst speak thus . . and thus . . . I live to show How much men bear and die not!                 'Thou wilt tell, With the grimace of hate, how horrible It was to meet my love when thine grew less; Thou wilt admire how I could e'er address Such features to love's work . . . this taunt, though true, (For indeed Nature nor in form nor hue Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship) Shall not be thy defence . . . for since thy lip Met mine first, years long past, since thine eye kindled With soft fire under mine, I have not dwindled Nor changed in mind or body, or in aught But as love changes what it loveth not After long years and many trials.                   'How vain Are words! I thought never to speak again, Not even in secret,not to my own heart But from my lips the unwilling accents start, And from my pen the words flow as I write, Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears . . . my sight Is dim to see that charactered in vain On this unfeeling leaf which burns the brain And eats into it . . . blotting all things fair And wise and good which time had written there. 'Those who inflict must suffer, for they see The work of their own hearts, and this must be Our chastisement or recompenseO child! I would that thine were like to be more mild For both our wretched sakes . . . for thine the most Who feelest already all that thou hast lost Without the power to wish it thine again; And as slow years pass, a funereal train Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend No thought on my dead memory?                 'Alas, love! Fear me not . . . against thee I would not move A finger in despite. Do I not live That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve? I give thee tears for scorn and love for hate; And that thy lot may be less desolate Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain. Then, when thou speakest of me, never say "He could forgive not." Here I cast away All human passions, all revenge, all pride; I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide Under these words, like embers, every spark Of that which has consumed mequick and dark The grave is yawning . . . as its roof shall cover My limbs with dust and worms under and over So let Oblivion hide this grief . . . the air Closes upon my accents, as despair Upon my heartlet death upon despair!' He ceased, and overcome leant back awhile, Then rising, with a melancholy smile Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept And muttered some familiar name, and we Wept without shame in his society. I think I never was impressed so much; The man who were not, must have lacked a touch Of human nature . . . then we lingered not, Although our argument was quite forgot, But calling the attendants, went to dine At Maddalo's; yet neither cheer nor wine Could give us spirits, for we talked of him And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim; And we agreed his was some dreadful ill Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable, By a dear friend; some deadly change in love Of one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of; For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot Of falsehood on his mind which flourished not But in the light of all-beholding truth; And having stamped this canker on his youth She had abandoned himand how much more Might be his woe, we guessed nothe had store Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess From his nice habits and his gentleness; These were now lost . . . it were a grief indeed If he had changed one unsustaining reed For all that such a man might else adorn. The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn; For the wild language of his grief was high, Such as in measure were called poetry; And I remember one remark which then Maddalo made. He said: 'Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong, They learn in suffering what they teach in song.' If I had been an unconnected man I, from this moment, should have formed some plan Never to leave sweet Venice,for to me It was delight to ride by the lone sea; And then, the town is silentone may write Or read in gondolas by day or night, Having the little brazen lamp alight, Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there, Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair Which were twin-born with poetry, and all We seek in towns, with little to recall Regrets for the green country. I might sit In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit And subtle talk would cheer the winter night And make me know myself, and the firelight Would flash upon our faces, till the day Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay: But I had friends in London too: the chief Attraction here, was that I sought relief From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought Within me'twas perhaps an idle thought But I imagined that if day by day I watched him, and but seldom went away, And studied all the beatings of his heart With zeal, as men study some stubborn art For their own good, and could by patience find An entrance to the caverns of his mind, I might reclaim him from his dark estate: In friendships I had been most fortunate Yet never saw I one whom I would call More willingly my friend; and this was all Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good Oft come and go in crowds or solitude And leave no tracebut what I now designed Made for long years impression on my mind. The following morning, urged by my affairs, I left bright Venice.            After many years And many changes I returned; the name Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same; But Maddalo was travelling far away Among the mountains of Armenia. His dog was dead. His child had now become A woman; such as it has been my doom To meet with few,a wonder of this earth, Where there is little of transcendent worth, Like one of Shakespeare's women: kindly she, And, with a manner beyond courtesy, Received her father's friend; and when I asked Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked, And told as she had heard the mournful tale: 'That the poor sufferer's health began to fail Two years from my departure, but that then The lady who had left him, came again. Her mien had been imperious, but she now Looked meekperhaps remorse had brought her low. Her coming made him better, and they stayed Together at my father'sfor I played, As I remember, with the lady's shawl I might be six years oldbut after all She left him' . . . 'Why, her heart must have been tough: How did it end?' 'And was not this enough? They metthey parted''Child, is there no more?' 'Something within that interval which bore The stamp of why they parted, how they met: Yet if thine agd eyes disdain to wet Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears, Ask me no more, but let the silent years Be closed and cered over their memory As yon mute marble where their corpses lie.' I urged and questioned still, she told me how All happenedbut the cold world shall not know. Composed at Este after Shelley's first visit to Venice, 1818 (Autumn); first published in the Posthumous Poems, London, 1824 (ed. Mrs. Shelley). Shelley's original intention had been to print the poem in Leigh Hunt's Examiner; but he changed his mind and, on August 15, 1819, sent the MS. to Hunt to be published anonymously by Ollier. This MS., found by Mr. Townshend Mayer, and by him placed in the hands of Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B., is described by him at length in Mr. Forman's Library Edition of the poems (vol. iii., p. 107). The date, 'May, 1819,' affixed to Julian and Maddalo in the P.P., 1824, indicates the time when the text was finally revised by Shelley. Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'From the Baths of Lucca, in 1818, Shelley visited Venice; and, circumstances rendering it eligible that we should remain a few weeks in the neighbourhood of that city, he accepted the offer of Lord Byron, who lent him the use of a villa he rented near Este; and he sent for his family from Lucca to join him. I Capuccini was a villa built on the site of a Capuchin convent, demolished when the French suppressed religious houses; it was situated on the very overhanging brow of a low hill at the foot of a range of higher ones. The house was cheerful and pleasant; a vine-trellised walk, a pergola, as it is called in Italian, led from the hall-door to a summer-house at the end of the garden, which Shelley made his study, and in which he began the Prometheus; and here also, as he mentions in a letter, he wrote Julian and Maddalo. A slight ravine, with a road in its depth, divided the garden from the hill, on which stood the ruins of the ancient castle of Este, whose dark massive wall gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined crevices owls and bats flitted forth at night, as the crescent moon sunk behind the black and heavy battlements. We looked from the garden over the wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west by the far Apennines, while to the east the horizon was lost in misty distance. After the picturesque but limited view of mountain, ravine, and chestnutwood, at the Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitely gratifying to the eye in the wide range of prospect commanded by our new abode. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Julian and Maddalo - A Conversation ,