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

With common men there needs to oft the show of war to keep The substance of sweet peace, and for a king, 'tis sometimes better to be fear'd than lov'd.

Yes--it was love--if thoughts o? Tenderness, tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, unmov'd by absence, firm in every clime, and yet--oh more than all! Untired by time, which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, could render sullen were she near to smile, nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent on her one murmur of his discontent; which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, lest that his look of grief should reach her heart; which nought removed, nor menaced to remove-- if there be love in mortals--this was love!

You have greatly ventured, but all must do so who would greatly win.

With just enough of learning to misquote

Yes--the same sin that overthrew the angels, and of all sins most easily besets mortals the nearest to the angelic nature: The vile are only vain; the great are proud.

You may live in an imperfect world but the frontiers are not closed and the doors are not all shut.

With more capacity for love than earth Bestows on most of mortal mold and birth, His early dreams of good out-stripp'd the truth, And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth.

Yet doth he live! exclaims th' impatient heir, And sighs for sables which he must not wear.

You never know what events are going to transpire to get you home.

With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe

Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, The women pardoned all, except her face.

Your letter of excuses has arrived. I receive the letter but do not admit the excuses except in courtesy, as when a man treads on your toes and begs your pardon -- the pardon is granted, but the joint aches, especially if there is a corn upon it.

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.