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What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence.

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
Waiting
Mercantile
Lord
Introvert
Known
Turmoil
Must
Politician
Men
Travel
Quiet
Existence
Written

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Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.
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I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.
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'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
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A material resurrection seems strange and even absurd except for purposes of punishment, and all punishment which is to revenge rather than correct must be morally wrong, and when the World is at an end, what moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures answer?
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Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
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My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
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I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end.
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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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Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader Some by a place--as tend their years or natures The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
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Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
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Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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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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I learned to love despair.
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Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
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And the commencement of atonement is the sense of its necessity.
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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
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Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice-- The weakness and the wickedness of luxury-- The negligence--the apathy--the evils Of sensual sloth--produces ten thousand tyrants, Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master, However harsh and hard in his own bearing.
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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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