Quotes from Lord Byron

Unquenched, unquenchable, Around, within, thy heart shall dwell; Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell The tortures of that inward hell!

But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away.' For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour?

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, How shall ye flee away and be at rest! The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, Mankind their country — Israel but the grave!

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood So we, boys, we Will die fighting, or live free, And down with all kings but King Ludd

Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou — who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns, To mark the spot where earth to earth returns! No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone; My epitaph shall be my name alone:

Tis to create, and in creating live a being more intense, that we endow with form our fancy, gaining as we give the life we image, even as I do now.

Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed, Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed, Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed: Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beamed— To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?

A drop of ink can make a million think.

The rhyme obliges me to this; sometimes Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes)

I live, But live to die; and, living, see no thing To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, A loathsome, and yet all invincible Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I Despise myself, yet cannot overcome–– And so I live. Would I had never lived!

The starry fable of the milky way Has not the story's purity; it is A constellation of a sweeter ray, And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, that in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds: -- Oh, holiest nurse! No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe.

The starry fable of the milky way Has not thy story's purity; it is A constellation of a sweeter ray, And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, that in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds: -- Oh, holiest nurse! No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe.

The spell is broke; the charm is flown! Thus is it with life's fitful fever: We madly smile when we should groan: Delirium is our best deceiver. Each lucid interval of thought Recalls the woes of Nature's charter; And he that acts as wise men ought, But lives, as saints have died, a martyr.

Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day.

For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea; But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again He'd tear me where he stands.

Unhappy Dives! in an evil hour 'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst! Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power; Wrath's vial on thy lofty head bath burst. In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first, How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose! But thou went smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.

This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

Le donne sono angeli,il matrimonio il diavolo

El amor halla sus caminos, aunque sea a través de senderos por donde ni los lobos se atreverían a seguir a su presa." Lord Byron Rosas al anochecer

The more I see of men, the less I like of them; if I could but say so of women too, all would be well.

With nothing left to love— there's naught to dread.

What else can joy be, but the spreading joy?

For time at last sets all things even And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power.