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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.

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
Face
Rubs
Faces
Harlots
Hope
Hollow
Pain
Touch
Truth
Paint
Nothing
Hold
Least
Cheeked
Existence
Harlot

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I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end.
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My native land, good night!
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And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
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What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.
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We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?
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Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.
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He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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Man, being reasonable, must get drunk the best of life is but intoxication.
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May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
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Few things surpass old wine and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain
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I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
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To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
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The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
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Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.
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