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

When things are at the worst they sometimes mend.

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground.

Whom the gods love die young was said of yore.

Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.

To create, and in creating live a being more intense, that we endow with form our fancy, gaining as we give the life we image, even as i do now. What am i? Nothing: but not so art thou, soul of my thought! With whom i traverse earth, invisible but gazing, as I glow mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, and feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth.

Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of this world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom.

We can’t all be Byronic adventurers like you Jude. Have you been wrestling with any brigands in the mountains there? No, but you’ve got to watch the drivers! Funny you should mention the poetic lord. He used to take his holidays down here, you know? What… picking up last-minute bargains with ‘EasyFrigate’?

What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.

Whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.

When things are bad, we take comfort in the thought that they could always get worse. And when they are, we find hope in the thought that things are so bad they have to get better.

Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.

Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones, Whose table earth, whose dice were human bones.

The sky spreads like an ocean hung on high, Bespangled with those isles of light so wildly, spiritually bright. Whoever gaz'd upon them shining, and turn'd to earth without repining, nor wish'd for wings to flee away, and mix with their eternal ray?

The way to be immortal (I mean not to die at all is to have me for your heir. I recommend you to put me in your will and you will see that (as long as I live at least you will never even catch cold.

There could be no honor in a sure success, but much might be wrested from a sure defeat.

There is no sterner moralist than pleasure.

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.

Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering and innocent.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests.

Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil

The spirit burning but unbent, May writhe, rebel - the weak alone repent!

The willow which bends to the tempest, often escapes better than the oak which resists it; and so in great calamities, it sometimes happens that light and frivolous spirits recover their elasticity and presence of mind sooner than those of a loftier character.

There is a fire And motion of the soul, which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire; And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.

There is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.