Quotes from Lord Byron

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause for breathe, And love itself have rest

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.

Oh too convincing - dangerously dear - In woman's eye the unanswerable tear

On with the dance! Let joy be undefined!

Opinions are made to be changed - or how is the truth to be got at.

Poetry is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.

Sweet is revenge - especially to women.

I love not man the less, but nature more

Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.

I am ashes where once I was fire...

To have joy, one must share it.

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.

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.

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.

Absence - that common cure of love.

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.

In solitude, where we are least alone.

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!

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

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.

This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.

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.