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This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.

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
Fear
Hath
Fall
Rise
Nothing
Leaving
Men
Band
Land
Servile
Lord
Freed
Though
Lands
Hope
Bands

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Jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
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Retirement accords with the tone of my mind I will not descend to a world I despise.
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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.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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I have always laid it down as a maxim -and found it justified by experience -that a man and a woman make far better friendships than can exist between two of the same sex -but then with the condition that they never have made or are to make love to each other.
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Though the day of my Destiny 's over, And the star of my Fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find.
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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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O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
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Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
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Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
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In solitude, when we are least alone.
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We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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It is not one man nor a million, but the spirit of liberty that must be preserved. The waves which dash upon the shore are, one by one, broken, but the ocean conquers nevertheless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears out the rock. In like manner, whatever the struggle of individuals, the great cause will gather strength.
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To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.
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Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
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Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
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Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
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The waves were dead the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd Darkness had no need Of aid from them-She was the Universe.
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Sweet is revenge-especially to women.
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