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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.

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
Littles
Little
Consented
Much
Strove
Repented
Whispering
Consent
Stills
Still

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In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years and curdles a long life into one hour.
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Sweet is revenge-especially to women.
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Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see.
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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
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I have not loved the World, nor the World me I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.
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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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Come what may, I have been blest.
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I know that two and two make four - and should be glad to prove it too if I could - though I must say if by any sort of process I could convert 2 and 2 into five it would give me much greater pleasure.
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My native land, good night!
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Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?
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The fact is that my wife if she had common sense would have more power over me than any other whatsoever, for my heart always alights upon the nearest perch.
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In solitude, when we are least alone.
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Despair and Genius are too oft connected
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