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

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

British Poet and leading figure in the Romantic Movement

Author Quotes

War, war is still the cry, "War even to the knife!"

Were't the last drop in the well, as I gasp'd upon the brink, ere my fainting spirit fell 't is to thee that I would drink.

What of them is left, to tell Where they lie, and how they fell? Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves: But they live in the Verse that immortally saves.

When Newton saw an apple fall, he found In that slight startle from his contemplation - 'Tis said (for I'll not answer above ground For any sage's creed or calculation) - A mode of proving that the earth turned round In a most natural whirl called G

Where is the world?" cries Young, at eighty. "Where The world in which a man was born?" Alas! Where is the world of eight years past? 'Twas there-- I look for it--'tis gone, a globe of glass Cracked, shivered, vanished, scarcely gazed on ere A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.

Who loves, raves--'tis youth's frenzy--but the cure Is bitterer still.

Time, the corrector when our judgments err, the test of truth and love; sole philosopher, for all besides are sophists.

Titan! To whom immortal eyes the sufferings of mortality seen in their sad reality, were not as things that gods despise; what was thy pity's recompense? A silent suffering, and intense; the rock, the vulture, and the chain, all that the proud can feel of pain, the agony they do not show, the suffocating sense of woe, which speaks but in its loneliness, and then is jealous lest the sky should have a listener, nor will sigh until its voice is echoless. Titan! To thee the strife was given between the suffering and the will, which torture where they cannot kill; and the inexorable heaven, and the deaf tyranny of fate, the ruling principle of hate, which for its pleasure doth create the things it may annihilate, refused thee even the boon to die: the wretched gift eternity was thine — and thou hast borne it well. All that the thunderer wrung from thee was but the menace which flung back on him the torments of thy rack; the fate thou didst so well foresee, but would not to appease him tell; and in thy silence was his sentence, and in his soul a vain repentance, and evil dread so ill dissembled, that in his hand the lightnings trembled. Thy godlike crime was to be kind, to render with thy precepts less the sum of human wretchedness, and strengthen man with his own mind; but baffled as thou wert from high, still in thy patient energy, in the endurance, and repulse of thine impenetrable spirit, which earth and heaven could not convulse, a mighty lesson we inherit: thou art a symbol and a sign to mortals of their fate and force; like thee, man is in part divine, a troubled stream from a pure source; and man in portions can foresee his own funereal destiny; his wretchedness, and his resistance, and his sad unallied existence: to which his spirit may oppose itself — and equal to all woes, and a firm will, and a deep sense, which even in torture can decry its own concenter'd recompense, triumphant where it dares defy, and making death a victory.

Tough times never last, but tough people do.

War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, unless her cause by right be sanctified.

What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head, And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger Is all the rest about her.

What say you to such a supper with such a woman?

When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep, eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning - how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse.

Where may the wearied eye repose when gazing on the great; where neither guilty glory glows, nor despicable state? Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — the Cincinnatus of the west, whom envy dared not hate, bequeath'd the name of Washington, to make man blush there was but one!

Who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below.

'Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on.

To aid thy mind's development, to watch Thy dawn of little joys, to sit and see Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee! To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, and print on thy soft cheek a parents kiss, This, it should seem, was not reserved for me; Yet this was in my nature: as it is, I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

Trials, temptations, disappointments -- all these are helps instead of hindrances, if one uses them rightly. They not only test the fiber of character but strengthen it. Every conquering temptation represents a new fund of moral energy. Every trial endured and weathered in the right spirit makes a soul nobler and stronger than it was before.

We are all selfish and I no more trust myself than others with a good motive.

What a strange thing is the propagation of life! A bubble of seed which may be spilt in a whore's lap, or in the orgasm of a voluptuous dream, might (for aught we know) have formed a Caesar or a Bonaparte -- there is nothing remarkable recorded of their sires, that I know of.

What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence.

When people say, "I've told you fifty times," they mean to scold, and very often do; when poets say, "I've written fifty rhymes," they make you dread that they'll recite them too; in gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes; at fifty love for love is rare, 't is true, but then, no doubt, it equally as true is, a good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!

Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?

Tis enough - Who listens once will listen twice; Her heart be sure is not of ice, And one refusal no rebuff.

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Byron, formally George Gordon Noel Byron, 6th Baron Byron
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British Poet and leading figure in the Romantic Movement