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Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
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
Sport
Brilliant
Sports
Pheasants
Poachers
Peasants
Autumn
Nuts
Brown
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
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What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.
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Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
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Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
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It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
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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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Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
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Yes, love indeed is light from heaven A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to lift from earth our low desire.
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Above or Love, Hope, Hate or Fear, It lives all passionless and pure: An age shall fleet like earthly year Its years in moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing, O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die.
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Not to admire, is all the art I know To make men happy, or to keep them so. Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?
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Jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
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I have not loved the World, nor the World me I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.
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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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Curiosity kills itself and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.
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