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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

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
Still
Delicious
Bitterness
Flowers
Flings
Bitter
Fount
Spring
Bubbling
Flower
Venom
Joy
Fling
Stills
Springs

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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
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Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth but actions are our epochs.
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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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Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear-- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue--at once her spear and shield.
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The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
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Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.
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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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Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.
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Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.
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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 suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels make air instead of sea voyages and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.
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But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.
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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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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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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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O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
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