Quotes from Lord Byron

I have stood upon Achilles' tomb and heard Troy doubted, Time will doubt of Rome

What is the end of Fame? 't is 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.

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.

A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands.

Life's enchanted cup sparkles near the brim

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, Wilt thou withstand the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven, His vulture and his rock!

There is a moral of all human tales: 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory; when that fails, Wealth, Vice, Corruption, barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.

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.

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...

In vain!—As fall the dews on quenchless sands, Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands!

Start not—nor deem my spirit fled: In me behold the only skull From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull.

She is so good a person, that - that - in short, I wish I was a better.

Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

There is the moral of all human tales:    Ã¢â'¬â"¢Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,    First Freedom, and then Glory - when that fails,    Wealth, vice, corruption - barbarism at last.    And History, with all her volumes vast,    Hath but one page

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.

I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion.

What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King Cheops erected the first pyramid And largest, thinking it was just the thing To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; But somebody or other rummaging, Burglariously broke his coffin's lid: Let not a monument give you or me hopes, Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.

And yet methinks the older that one grows Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after.

The blest are the dead, Who see not the sight Of their own desolation;   50 This work of a night — This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing

We are all selfish and I no more trust myself than others with a good motive.

If I am a fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.

To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was opened wide, And voices from the deep abyss revealed A marvel and a secret. —Be it so.

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.

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