Quotes from byron lord iii

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy!

But yet she listen'd -- 'tis enough -- Who listens once will listen twice; Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, And one refusal no rebuff.

But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corpse 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 corpse.

For talk six times with the same single lady, And you may get the wedding dresses ready.

Ah, vice! how soft are they voluptuous ways, While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape The fascination of thy magic gaze? A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.

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.

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--produce ten thousand tyrants, Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master, However harsh and hard in his own bearing.

Hide thy tears--I do not bid thee not to shed them--'twere easier to stop the Euphrates at its source than one tear of a true and tender heart.

I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

Whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.

But owned that smile, if oft observed and near, Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer.

Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.

Smiles form the channels of a future tear.

Romances paint at full length people's wooings, But only give a bust of marriages: For no one cares for matrimonial cooings. There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss. Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?

Foul Superstition! howsoe'er disguised, Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss! Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross?

Suspicion is a heavy armor, and with its own weight impedes more than it protects.

Parent of golden dreams, Romance! Auspicious queen of childish joys, Who lead'st along, in airy dance, Thy votive train of girls and boys.

When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls--the World.