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Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.

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
Seems
Women
Wells
Well
Love
Falsehood
Otherwise
Lying
Truth

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For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.
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Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.
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Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.
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I learned to love despair.
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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.
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Smiles form the channels of a future tear.
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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years and curdles a long life into one hour.
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Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!
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A celebrity is one who is known to many persons he is glad he doesn't know.
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To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
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Happiness was born a twin.
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?
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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver.
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A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.
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