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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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
Worth
Relic
Though
Relics
Great
Departed
Greece
Immortal
Fallen
Fairs
Fair
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To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
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The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
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Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
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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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Come what may, I have been blest.
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And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.
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If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver.
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Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
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They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.
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Poetry should only occupy the idle.
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And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.
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Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
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May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
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The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game.
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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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When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past - For years fleet away with the wings of the dove - The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
Lord Byron
I have no consistency, except in politics and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
Lord Byron
The devil was the first democrat
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This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
Lord Byron
The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
Lord Byron
