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Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
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
Pockets
Kill
Family
Keep
Hands
Breeches
May
Brook
Men
Brooks
Pocket
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This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
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He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
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Such is your cold coquette, who can't say No, And won't say Yes, and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.
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The poetry of speech.
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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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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.
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Smiles form the channels of a future tear.
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For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
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My turn of mind is so given to taking things in the absurd point of view, that it breaks out in spite of me every now and then.
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Despair and Genius are too oft connected
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For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.
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None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
Lord Byron
