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And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

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
Sparkles
Brim
Sparkle
Enchanted
Cups
Near
Life

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Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
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I should be very willing to redress men wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, had not Cervantes, in that all too true tale of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.
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With thee all tales are sweet each clime has charms earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.
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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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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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Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
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A quiet conscience makes one so serene.
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The reason that adulation is not displeasing is that, though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to induce people to lie.
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I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.
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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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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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This is the patent-age of new inventions For killing bodies, and for saving souls, All propagated with the best intentions Sir Humphrey Davy's lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.
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Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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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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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
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I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England if false, England was unfit for me.
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I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading about them, . . . that I think there should be a law amongst us to set our young men abroad for a term among the few allies our wars have left us.
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