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Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.

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
Told
Tenderness
Wise
Disguise
Tropes
Eyes
Suit
Wooing
Though
Despise
Humbly
Eye
Suits
Thine
Moving
Proper
Homage
Art
Thou
Idol
Even
Thee
Idols

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The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
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The heart will break, but broken live on.
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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
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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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Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.
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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others.
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The poetry of speech.
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...And these vicissitudes come best in youth For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth: He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Has won experience which is deem'd so weighty.
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Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
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Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.
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Life is too short for chess.
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And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
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Damn description, it is always disgusting.
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Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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One hates an author that's all author.
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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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Though the day of my Destiny 's over, And the star of my Fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find.
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