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I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness.

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
Course
Literature
Happiness
Engagement
Men
Wedding
Pursuit
Misery
Married
Courses

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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
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I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.
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Then farewell, Horace whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
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Champagne with its foaming whirls/As white as Cleopatra's pearls.
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And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
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America is a model of force and freedom and moderation - with all the coarseness and rudeness of its people.
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Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Botswain, a dog.
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Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
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With flowing tail and flying mane, Wide nostrils never stretched by pain, Mouth bloodless to bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscar'd by spur or rod, A thousand horses - the wild - the free - Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on.
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Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world.
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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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Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
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This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
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Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
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Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
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Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.
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Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
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