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Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

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
Deeds
Consecrate
Lies
Rake
Crime
Rakes
Lying
Coffin
Evil
Coffins
Rhyme
Clay
Florid
Prose
Heralds

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Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
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Land of lost gods and godlike men.
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Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
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It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
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Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.
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Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe... Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties - give me a cigar!
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There is music in all things, if men had ears.
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The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains--beautiful! I linger yet with nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man, and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness I learned the language of another world.
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Frienship is eros...without wings
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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
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A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.
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Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
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