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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

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
Happiness
Happy
Years
Would
Boys

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Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.
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Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
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In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
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It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.
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There is music in all things, if men had ears.
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The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
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I have no consistency, except in politics and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
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Why I came here, I know not where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?
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And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.
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The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
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Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.
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All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99
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Curiosity kills itself and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.
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I only know we loved in vain I only feel-farewell! farewell!
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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And then he danced,-all foreigners excel the serious Angels in the eloquence of pantomime-he danced, I say, right well, with emphasis, and a'so with good sense-a thing in footing indispensable: he danced without theatrical pretence, not like a ballet-master in the van of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.
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I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.
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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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