Quotes from Lord Byron

Till taught by pain, Men really know not what good water's worth.

Life 's a poor player,'—then 'play out the play, Ye villains!' above all keep a sharp eye Much less on what you do than what you say: Be hypocritical, be cautious, be Not what you seem, but always what you see.

That is the usual method, but not mine— My way is to begin with the beginning;

And gave no outward signs of inward strife

With virtues equall'd by her wit alone

Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime, The image of Eternity, -- the throne Of the Invisible! even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

No more Keats, I entreat: flay him alive; if some of you don't I must skin him myself: there is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the Mankin.

none are left to please when none are left to love.

The great object of life is sensation—to feel that we exist, even though in pain. It is this 'craving void' which drives us to gaming—to battle—to travel—to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description, whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment.

Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the moon...

I want a hero: an uncommon want

They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't; Because if drown'd, they can't—if spared, they won't.

Censure no more shall brand my humble name The child of passion and the fool of fame

Sólo salgo para renovar la necesidad de estar solo.

My days of love are over; me no more The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, Can make the fool of which they made before,— In short, I must not lead the life I did do; The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er, The copious use of claret is forbid too, So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.

Is yet within the unread events of time. Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back Against the same given quantity of rhyme, For being as much the subject of attack As ever yet was any work sublime, By those who love to say that white is black. So much the better!—I may stand alone, But would not change my free thoughts for a throne.

He was the mildest manner'd man / That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat.

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

For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.

You take things coolly, sir,' said Juan. 'Why,' Replied the other, 'what can a man do? There still are many rainbows in your sky, But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new, Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high; But time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses who pull;

The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts, Is its own origin of ill and end, And its own place and time; its innate sense, When stripped of this mortality, derives No colour from the fleeting things without, But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, Born from the knowledge of its own desert.

For Earth is but a tombstone

It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earth-quake-they say Poets never or rarely go mad...but are generally so near it-that I cannot help thinking rhyme is so far useful in anticipating & preventing the disorder.