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All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99

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
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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
Human
Dinner
Humans
Eating
Attests
Much
Depends
Stanza
Men
Food
Byron
Since
Juan
Lord
Sinner
Happiness
Apples
History
Hungry

More quotes by Lord Byron

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None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
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But as to women, who can penetrate the real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate has much of selfishness and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, but form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.
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The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
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To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.
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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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If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
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All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
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And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
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Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
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Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave.
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This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
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The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!
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Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.
Lord Byron
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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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The French courage proceeds from vanity
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There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.
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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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Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
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Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
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The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
Lord Byron