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Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

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
Fire
Shine
Motion
Cooks
Meat
Smelt
Shining
Bared
Clean
Beheld
Arms
Cookery
Huge
Roast

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I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England if false, England was unfit for me.
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It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
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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 great object of life is Sensation - to feel that we exist - even though in pain - it is this craving void which drives us to gaming - to battle - to travel - to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment.
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I depart, Whither I know not but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
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Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?
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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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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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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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Tyranny Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem None rebels except subjects? The prince who Neglects or violates his trust is more A brigand than the robber-chief.
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The heart will break, but broken live on.
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The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
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But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.
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If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.
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This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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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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I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.
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I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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