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Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.

Lord Byron

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Lord Byron
Age: 36 †
Born: 1788
Born: January 22
Died: 1824
Died: April 19
Autobiographer
Baron Byron
Diarist
Librettist
Lyricist
Military Personnel
Playwright
Poet
Politician
Translator
Writer
London
England
George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron
Noel Byron
Xhorxh Bajroni
Bajron
George Gordon
Jerzy Gordon Byron
Pai-lun
Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Noel
Byron
George Gordon Byron
Baron Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Noël Byron Byron
Bayrěn
Payrěn
George Gordon By
Doe
May
Never
Love
Subsides
Friendship
Grow
Grows
Often

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What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.
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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.
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All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
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...And these vicissitudes come best in youth For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth: He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Has won experience which is deem'd so weighty.
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But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.
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The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.
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I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.
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Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
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Tis strange,-but true for truth is always strange Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
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Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth: Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
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The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
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Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
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The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!
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And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
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But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
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Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe.
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