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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?

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
Written
Fools
Understand
Madness
Believe
Atheism
Men
Mystery
Impostors
Fool
Evangelicals
Style
Sects
Inspiration
Mysteries
Mistake
Chose

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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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With thee all tales are sweet each clime has charms earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.
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Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.
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Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
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Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
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By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies.
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The reason that adulation is not displeasing is that, though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to induce people to lie.
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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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My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.
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Poetry should only occupy the idle.
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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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Frienship is eros...without wings
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Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
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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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Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave.
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There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
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