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A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
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
Mortal
Mortals
Wounds
Mistake
Every
Timid
Mind
Scratch
Scratches
Wound
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They used to say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I know now they mean money.
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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story The days of our youth are the days of our glory And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
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Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others.
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This is to be along this, this is solitude!
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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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Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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There is music in all things, if men had ears.
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My native land, good night!
Lord Byron
Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
Lord Byron
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
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The heart will break, but broken live on.
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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
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Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.
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The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
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