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May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
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
May
Lays
Punctual
Rewards
Tailors
Bills
Coats
Notes
Boast
Grateful
Poems
Skills
Reward
Pay
Skill
Beaux
Longer
Bill
Weavers
More quotes by Lord Byron
Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
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Tis strange,-but true for truth is always strange Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
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Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story The days of our youth are the days of our glory And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
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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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Lord of himself that heritage of woe!
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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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Friendship is Love without his wings!
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.
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Tis an old lesson time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost.
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This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
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Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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Curiosity kills itself and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.
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Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
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There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
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Sweet is revenge-especially to women.
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Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
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I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels make air instead of sea voyages and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.
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