Quotes from George Gordon Byron

And thus they plod in sluggish misery, Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Bequeathing their hereditary rage To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and rather than be free, Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage Within the same arena where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.

The causes that have made me wretched would probably not have discomposed, or, at least, more than discomposed, another. We are all differently organized; and that I feel acutely is no more my fault (though it is my misfortune) than that another feels not, is his. We did not make ourselves, and if the elements of unhappiness abound more in the nature of one man than another, he is but the more entitled to our pity and our forbearance.

There 's music in all things, if men had ears:

Prometheus-like from heaven she stole The fire that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll, From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: And as along her bosom steal In lengthened flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, And curled to give her neck caresses.

The Mountains look on Marathon And Marathon looks to the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free...

My great comfort is, that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and prejudices. I have flattered no ruling powers; I have never concealed a single thought that tempted me.

And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, That good but rarely came from good advice.

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, 'Tis something better not to be. [First published, Childe Harold, 1812

But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race; There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life;

There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears: Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

To others' share let 'female errors fall,' For she had not even one—the worst of all.

Zda si? by? ?yw? -gdyby nie to oko, Gdzie ju? nie ?wieci ni ?za, ni nami?tno??, Gdzie mieszka zimna, wieczna oboj?tno??.

Where yet my boys are, and that fatal She, Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought Destruction for a dowry—this to see And feel, and know without repair, hath taught A bitter lesson; but it leaves me free: I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, They made an Exile—not a Slave of me.

I can recognize any one by the teeth, with whom I have talked. I always watch the lips and mouth: they tell what the tongue and eyes try to conceal. [at the funeral of Percy Bysshe Shelley, according to E.J. Trelawny]

Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,   Should, after all, our best endeavours fail;   Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live,   And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

So, we'll go no more a roving     So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving,     And the moon be still as bright. II For the sword outwears its sheath,     And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe,     And love itself have rest. III

It is not with earth, though I must till it, I feel at war..but I may not profit of what it bears of beauty,untoiling, Nor gratify my thousands swelling thoughts with knowledge, Nor allay my thousand fears of death and life.

Evil and Good are things in their own essebce and not made good or evil by the giver. but if he gives you good so cal him; if evil springs from him, do not name it mine till ye know better its true fount -Lucifer

Il ricordo del piacere non è più piacere. Il ricordo del dolore è ancora dolore.

My time has been passed viciously and agreeably—at thirty-one so few years months days hours or minutes remain that 'Carpe diem' is not enough—I have been obliged to crop even the seconds—for who can trust to tomorrow?

And feeling, in a poet, is the source Of others' feeling; but they are such liars, And take all colours—like the hands of dyers.

Like other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then talky, then argumentative, then disputatious, then unintelligible, then altogether, then inarticulate, and then drunk. When we had reached the last step of this glorious ladder, it was difficult to get down again without stumbling.

Ata që nuk do të arsyetojnë, janë fanatikë, ata që nuk munden, janë të marrë, dhe ata që nuk guxojnë, janë skllevër.

Recuso-me a ser escravo de algum apetite.