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Tyranny Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem None rebels except subjects? The prince who Neglects or violates his trust is more A brigand than the robber-chief.

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
Except
Tyrants
Neglects
Subjects
Rebel
Robber
Trust
Chief
Violates
Worst
Chiefs
Deem
Neglect
Dost
Tyranny
Rebels
Thou
Robbers
None
Prince
Treasons

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A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover - but will sooner or later find a tyrant.
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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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A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty
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Eternity forbids thee to forget.
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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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And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
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Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Botswain, a dog.
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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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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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Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.
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Not to admire, is all the art I know To make men happy, or to keep them so. Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?
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He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.
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O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
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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.
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The waves were dead the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd Darkness had no need Of aid from them-She was the Universe.
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Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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There is no instinct like that of the heart.
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A quiet conscience makes one so serene.
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