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Champagne with its foaming whirls/As white as Cleopatra's pearls.
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
White
Foaming
Whirls
Cleopatra
Champagne
Pearls
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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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I have always laid it down as a maxim -and found it justified by experience -that a man and a woman make far better friendships than can exist between two of the same sex -but then with the condition that they never have made or are to make love to each other.
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Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived by those we love, than in being undeceived by them.
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The very best of vineyards is the cellar
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I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
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Sweet is revenge-especially to women.
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Your thief looks Exactly like the rest, or rather better 'Tis only at the bar, and in the dungeon, That wise men know your felon by his features.
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!
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One hates an author that's all author.
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I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.
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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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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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It is when we think we lead that we are most led.
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Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?
Lord Byron
But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.
Lord Byron
Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.
Lord Byron
Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.
Lord Byron
