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Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel

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
Love
Nickel
Nickels
Drink
Worth
Rest

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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
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This is the patent-age of new inventions For killing bodies, and for saving souls, All propagated with the best intentions Sir Humphrey Davy's lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.
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A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
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I only know we loved in vain I only feel-farewell! farewell!
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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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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.
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I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day.
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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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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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I learned to love despair.
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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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We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
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Not to admire, is all the art I know To make men happy, or to keep them so. Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?
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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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