LORD BYRON QUOTES Lord Byron (1788-1824) English Romantic poet

LORD BYRON, Don Juan

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.

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.

Friendship is Love without his wings!

LORD BYRON, Hours of Idleness

LORD BYRON, Don Juan

LORD BYRON, Don Juan

O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper,

Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour.

LORD BYRON, Don Juan

LORD BYRON, Don Juan

LORD BYRON, Manfred

When we think we lead, we are most led.

LORD BYRON, The Two Foscari

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 foolscap crown

On a fool's head--and there is London Town.

LORD BYRON, Sardanapalus

Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil.

LORD BYRON, Hours of Idleness

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;

It hath no flatterers; vanity can give

No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive.

I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as most people, being always excited; women, wine, fame, the table, even ambition, sate now & then, but every turn of the card & cast of the dice keeps the gambler alive.

LORD BYRON, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers

LORD BYRON, The Corsair

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.

LORD BYRON, Don Juan

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:

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.

Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead,

And the apparel of the grave.

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.

We are 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.

Joy's recollection is no longer joy,

While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still.

They never fail who die

In a great cause: the block may soak their gore:

Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs

Be strung to city gates and castle walls—

But still their Spirit walks abroad. Though years

Elapse, and others share as dark a doom,

They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts

Which overpower all others, and conduct

The world at last to Freedom.

The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more,

As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel.

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.

What is

Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset;

And mortals may be happy to resemble

The Gods but in decay.

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.

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.

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