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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
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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
Men
Wedding
Pursuit
Misery
Married
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Literature
Happiness
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Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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I have no consistency, except in politics and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
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The poetry of speech.
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And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
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Your thief looks Exactly like the rest, or rather better 'Tis only at the bar, and in the dungeon, That wise men know your felon by his features.
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Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
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Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
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A quiet conscience makes one so serene.
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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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The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
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The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.
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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?
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Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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I hate all pain, Given or received we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.
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'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.
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Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
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