Quotes from Lord Byron

For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?

It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts, you have no idea of the pain it gives one.

I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.

All farewells should be sudden, when forever.

I am sure of nothing so little as my own intentions.

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!

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.

He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.

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.

Land of lost gods and godlike men.

Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

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.

What a strange thing is man! And what a stranger is woman.

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give, No hollow aid; alone - man with God must strive.

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.

Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.

My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.

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.

He was a man of his times. with one virtue and a thousand crimes. (The Corsair)

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

Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.

O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour.

Yes! Ready money is Aladdin's lamp.