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I hate all pain, Given or received we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.

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
Burden
Loftiest
Misery
Monarch
Within
Meanest
Natural
Monarchs
Pain
Mortal
Hate
Received
Given
Mortals
Enough
Add
Vassal

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It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.
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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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If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver.
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Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.
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Absence - that common cure of love.
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So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.
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Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice-- The weakness and the wickedness of luxury-- The negligence--the apathy--the evils Of sensual sloth--produces ten thousand tyrants, Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master, However harsh and hard in his own bearing.
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For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands.
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I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
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To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.
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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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Your thief looks Exactly like the rest, or rather better 'Tis only at the bar, and in the dungeon, That wise men know your felon by his features.
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He who is only just is cruel who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly?
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If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end.
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Champagne with its foaming whirls/As white as Cleopatra's pearls.
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I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.
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Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
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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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