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Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

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
Oracle
Oracles
Conscience
Men

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Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.
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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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All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
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Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
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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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What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.
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For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth: Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
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I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.
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Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.
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And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!
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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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Tis strange,-but true for truth is always strange Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
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Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
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I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law.
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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