Quotes from George Gordon Byron

Tis strange,-but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!

A woman being never at a loss... the devil always sticks by them.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

If I could always read I should never feel the want of company.

For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?

On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.

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.

There is no instinct like that of the heart.

In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love.

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains.—Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me, but let us part fair foes; I do believe, though I have found them not, that there may be words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, and virtues which are merciful, or weave snares for the failing: I would also deem o'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; that two, or one, are almost what they seem, that goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.

If I should meet thee After long years How should I greet thee? With silence and tears.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,       Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;       'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link       Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his.

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

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

Hate is by far the greatest pleasure; men love in haste, but detest in leisure.

Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, the Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.

I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.

Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.

I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.