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

Things were bad but now they are OK.

Thou more than stone of the Philosopher!

The stars are constantly shining, but often we do not see them until the dark hours.

The wish, which ages have not yet subdued In man, to have no master save his mood.

There is a great deal of unmapped country within us which would have to be taken into account in an explanation of our gusts and storms.

There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth

There's nothing in the world like etiquette In kingly chambers, or imperial halls, As also at the race and county balls.

Think not I am what I appear.

Thou need'st not answer; thy confession speaks, Already redd'ning in thy guilty cheeks.

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops o the snow-shining mountains--beautiful! I linger yet with nature, for the night hath been to me a more familiar face than that of man, and in her starry shade of dim and solitary loveliness I learned the language of another world.

The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, The wreck by passion left behind, A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, sear'd by the autumn blast of grief!

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

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

There's nothing makes me so much grieve, As that abominable tittle-tattle, Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle.

Think you if Laura had been Petrarch's wife He would have written sonnets all his life?

Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear

The sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places.

There is a tear for all who die, a mourner o'er the humblest grave.

There is nothing gives a man such spirits, Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, As going at full speed--no matter where its Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry, And merely for the sake of its own merits; For the less cause there is for all this flurry, The greater is the pleasure in arriving At the great end of travel--which is driving.

There's nought in this bad world like sympathy: 'tis so becoming to the soul and face-- sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, and robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.

Thinkst thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs; mine Have made my days and nights imperishable, Endless, and all alike.

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey; because the first is crazed beyond all hope, The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy.

The present century was growing blind To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, until his late life by Archdeacon Coxe.

The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; In fact, he had no singing education, An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow