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I loved my country, and I hated him.

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
Hated
Loved
Country

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In general I do not draw well with literary men -- not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.
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What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.
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Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.
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You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
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Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
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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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History - the devil's scripture
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Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others.
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Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger opens a new world When this, the present, palls.
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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence.
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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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This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
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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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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.
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Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, But has not answer'd like the apparatus Of the Humane Society's beginning, By which men are unsuffocated gratis: What wondrous new machines have late been spinning.
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I only know we loved in vain I only feel-farewell! farewell!
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We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?
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I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness.
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