Quotes from Lord Byron

Fare thee well, and if for ever Still for ever fare thee well.

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

Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel

Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!

You should have a softer pillow than my heart.

I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South

I know that two and two make four - and should be glad to prove it too if I could - though I must say if by any sort of process I could convert 2 and 2 into five it would give me much greater pleasure.

Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?

There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

As soon seek roses in December, ice in June, Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff Believe a woman or an epitaph Or any other thing that's false Before you trust in critics.

'Tis strange - but true for truth is always strange Stranger than fiction.

Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.

A sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned.

Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived by those we love, than in being undeceived by them.

Man's love is of man's life a part; it is a woman's whole existence. In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love.

You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?

Let none think to fly the danger for soon or late love is his own avenger.

There is no instinct like that of the heart.

What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence.

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of the world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom.