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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
Happiness
Engagement
Men
Wedding
Pursuit
Misery
Married
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Literature

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To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
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My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
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Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
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Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
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But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
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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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'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern His brain about the action of the sky If you think 'twas philosophy that this did, I can't help thinking puberty assisted.
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Curiosity kills itself and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.
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I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.
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Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.
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In solitude, when we are least alone.
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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.
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I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
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Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
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The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.
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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
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Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see.
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Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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