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Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.

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
Many
Love
Sigh
Loved
Though

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The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
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I should be very willing to redress men wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, had not Cervantes, in that all too true tale of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.
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I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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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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Despair and Genius are too oft connected
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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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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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By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.
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The French courage proceeds from vanity
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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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Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his 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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