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Fame is the thirst of youth.

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
Thirst
Fame
Youth
Literature

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There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
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Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.
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And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
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I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.
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Damn description, it is always disgusting.
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My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
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In general I do not draw well with literary men -- not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.
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Happiness was born a twin.
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For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
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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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It is true from early habit, one must make love mechanically as one swims I was once very fond of both, but now as I never swim unless I tumble into the water, I don't make love till almost obliged.
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It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
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Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.
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I came to realize clearly that the mind is no other than the Mountain and the Rivers and the great wide Earth, the Sun and the Moon and the Sky”.
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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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Sweet is revenge-especially to women.
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Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
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