Lord Byron, formally George Gordon Noel Byron, 6th Baron Byron

With swimming looks of speechless tenderness.

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it

Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

Yet how much less it were to gain, though thou hast left me free, the loveliest things that still remain, than thus remember thee.

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.

Yet I did love thee to the last, as fervently as thou, who didst not change through all the past, and canst not alter now.

Woman! Experience might have told me, that all must love thee who behold thee: surely experience might have taught thy firmest promises are nought: but, placed in all thy charms before me, all I forget, but to adore thee.

Yet in my lineaments they trace some features of my father's face.

Women hate everything which strips off the tinsel of sentiment, and they are right, or it would rob them of their weapons.

Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

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

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

Wordsworth – stupendous genius! Damned fool! These poets run about their ponds though they cannot fish.

Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him in soul and aspect as in age: Years steal Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; And Life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,— Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.

Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

Yet, Freedom! yet the banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunderstorm against the wind!

Yes! Ready money is Aladdin's lamp.

You are 'the best of cut-throats:'--do not start; The phrase is Shakespeare's, and not misapplied:-- War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, Unless her cause by Right be sanctified. If you have acted once a generous part, The World, not the World's masters, will decide, and I shall be delighted to learn who, Save you and yours, have gained by Waterloo? I am no flatterer--you've supped full of flattery: They say you like it too--'tis no great wonder: He whose whole life has been assault and battery, At last may get a little tired of thunder; And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he May like being praised for every lucky blunder; Called 'Savior of the Nations'--not yet saved, And Europe's Liberator--still enslaved. I've done. Now go and dine from off the plate Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, And send the sentinel before your gate A slice or two from your luxurious meals: He fought, but has not fed so well of late.

Wished him five fathom under the Rialto.

Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay.

You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell with a deep thought, and with a softened eye, on that old sexton's natural homily, in which there was obscurity and fame, the glory and the nothing of a name. [Churchill’s grave}

With but a plank between them and their fate.

Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Allah given To lift from earth our low desire.