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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
More quotes by Lord Byron
One hates an author that's all author.
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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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Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.
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Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, For into a prime minister but change His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation.
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Not to admire, is all the art I know To make men happy, or to keep them so. Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?
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Who then will explain the explanation?
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The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses that pull, Each tugs in a different way And the greatest of all is John Bull!
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The reason that adulation is not displeasing is that, though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to induce people to lie.
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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.
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Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.
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Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
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'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
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But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
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Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
Lord Byron
Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
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The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made each zone Obeys thee thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
Lord Byron
