Quotes About Byron

It's been such a deep and amazing journey for me, getting close to John Keats, and also I love Shelley and Byron. I mean, the thing about the Romantic poets is that they've got the epitaph of romantic posthumously. They all died really young, and Keats, the youngest of them all.

Being with Diana was a liberating, unholy adventure. It was also dark and strange and, tonight, even a little terrifying. James was right. Just like Lord Byron, she was mad, bad, and dangerous to know.

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.

Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.

For most men (till by losing rendered sager) Will back their own opinions by a wager.

Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest.

Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.

Yes, my mother was on about Byron. But who wants to be like Byron? I despise him.

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

I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.

VALENTINE: Are you talking about Lord Byron, the poet? BERNARD: No, you fucking idiot, we're talking about Lord Byron, the chartered accountant.

There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.

and there the stories Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.

And he who lieth there was childless. I have dried the fountain of gentle race.. -Cain

Think how the joys of reading a Gazette Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Or if these do not move you, don't forget Such doom may be your own in aftertimes.

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

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

Tis strange - but true; for Truth is always strange, Stranger than Fiction

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away.

We go to Byron, healer--do you follow?" Jacques asked. Gregori reluctantly left Raven to Mikhail. A woman could not possible be claimed before her eighteenth birthday. Every moment of the healer's existence would be an endurance test, living in hell until the child came of age. He would hunt and feed and resist the kill unless he was called on to dispense justice. That would be the most dangerous of all times, walking away from the power of taking a life.

A greenish mist streamed through cracks in the fallen wall, shimmered for a moment as it swept through the room. Gregori kept his body positioned between the mist and his prince, facing the mist. Vampires often had lesser ones to serve them, new to the world of vampire and unable yet to fend completely for themselves. The mist began to form into a human frame, and Byron faced Gregori, staring at the fallen prince. "Who has done this? And who is the one buried beneath the rocks?

then he looked at my T-shirt and saw Byron's picture on it and he quoted She Walks in Beauty, which is like my favorite poem next to the one by Baudelaire about his girlfriend being nothing but worm food, except that Lily called that one first because Baudelaire is her fave poet and so she got the shirt with him on it, even though Byron is way more scrumptious and I would do him on sharp gravel if I had the chance. --from The Chronicles of Abby Normal

Every Chihuahua in America Lines Up to Take a Bite out of Byron

For most men (till by losing rendered sager) Will back their own opinions by a wager.