Quotes from Lord Byron

Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.

He who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below.

Jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.

Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world.

One of the pleasures of reading old letters is the knowledge that they need no answer.

When we think we lead we most are led.

I slept and dreamt that life was beauty; I woke and found that life was duty.

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.

Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.

Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.

Smiles form the channels of a future tear.

Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tries, the Bores and Bored.

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend.

There is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?

The dew of compassion is a tear.

For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear.

If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.

Society is now one polished horde Formed of two mighty tribes The Bores and the Bored.

One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.

The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.