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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

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
Rhymes
Rhyme
Head
Passion
Heart

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When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past - For years fleet away with the wings of the dove - The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
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Damn description, it is always disgusting.
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Send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years .
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I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.
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Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger opens a new world When this, the present, palls.
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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.
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Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
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The French courage proceeds from vanity
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Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.
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Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
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What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.
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Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
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There is, in fact, no law or government at all and it is wonderful how well things go on without them.
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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Absence - that common cure of love.
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Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
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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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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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I have no consistency, except in politics and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
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You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
Lord Byron