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Fill high the cup with Samian wine!

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
Cups
Fill
Wine
High

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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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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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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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Then farewell, Horace whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
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Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.
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The waves were dead the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd Darkness had no need Of aid from them-She was the Universe.
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Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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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, talk not to me of a name great in story The days of our youth are the days of our glory And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
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The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.
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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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For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
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Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others.
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Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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Friendship is Love without his wings!
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I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading about them, . . . that I think there should be a law amongst us to set our young men abroad for a term among the few allies our wars have left us.
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The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made each zone Obeys thee thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
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