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Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
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
Age
Athena
Tower
Spares
Marathon
Towers
Shakes
Gray
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
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What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence.
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The fact is that my wife if she had common sense would have more power over me than any other whatsoever, for my heart always alights upon the nearest perch.
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Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.
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Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Botswain, a dog.
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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.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.
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Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
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Then farewell, Horace whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
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Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.
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Sweet is revenge-especially to women.
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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
Lord Byron
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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A drop of ink may make a million think.
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I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
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