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

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What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.
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Many are poets, but without the nameFor what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain
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O ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain.
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Despair and Genius are too oft connected
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'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.
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By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.
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A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
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Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
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Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.
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Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
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And hold up to the sun my little taper.
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Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
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But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.
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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.
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The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
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