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Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.

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
Ale
Barrels
Bottles
Wine
Sweet

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I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law.
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Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.
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Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night!
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A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.
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There is music in all things, if men had ears.
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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.
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And the commencement of atonement is the sense of its necessity.
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For truth is always strange stranger than fiction.
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A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
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I depart, Whither I know not but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
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Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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My native land, good night!
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Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
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Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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The very best of vineyards is the cellar
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Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.
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