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Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.

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
Martyrdom
Folly
Reputation
Loves
Fame

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O ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain.
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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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I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.
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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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Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
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Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.
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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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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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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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Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe... Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties - give me a cigar!
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A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty
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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
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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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The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
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I depart, Whither I know not but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
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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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Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others.
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Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night!
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