George Gordon Byron quotes: wise famous quotes, sayings and quotations by George Gordon Byron

George Gordon Byron Famous Quotes & Sayings

Discover top inspirational quotes from George Gordon Byron on Wise Famous Quotes.

Come, lay thy head upon my breast and I'll kiss thee unto rest.

Adversity is the first path to truth.

In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love.

Friendship is love without wings.

If I could always read I should never feel the want of company.

I am ashes where once I was fire...

I have stood upon Achilles' tomb
and heard Troy doubted,
Time will doubt of Rome

The heart will break, but broken live on.

Strange, the Hebrew noun which means "I am", The English always use to govern damn.

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, and greater criminals?

Society is now one polish'd horde, Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

They never fail who die in a great cause.

Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

He was a man of his times. with one virtue and a thousand crimes. (The Corsair)

I will not ask where thou liest low, Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may
grow, So I behold them not

There' s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay.

Tis strange - but true; for Truth is always strange,
Stranger than Fiction

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, the first to welcome, the foremost to defend.

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

whom the god loves dies young

We of the craft (poets) are all crazy.

Hate is by far the greatest pleasure; men love in haste, but detest in leisure.

but quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet.

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,
But that, will make us weep the more.

I came to realize clearly that the mind is no other than the Mountain and the Rivers and the great wide Earth, the Sun and the Moon and the Sky.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.

I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.

Absence - that common cure of love.

if i dont write to empty my mind, i go mad

Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.

Censure no more shall brand my humble name
The child of passion and the fool of fame

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be

Loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad cell.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil.

Being of no party,
I shall offend all parties

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands.

A drop of ink may make a million think.

And he who lieth there was childless. I have dried the fountain of gentle race..
-Cain

Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate.

But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?

A little still she strove, and much repented,
And whispering "I will ne'er consent" - consented.

Here we are and there we go:---but where?

Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee - by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now.

The moon is up, and yet it is not night,
The sun as yet divides the day with her.

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.

No more Keats, I entreat: flay him alive; if some of you don't I must skin him myself: there is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the Mankin.

'All that we know is, nothing can be known.

If I have any fault, it is digression

Always laugh when you can, it is cheap medicine.

I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.

Oh! Many a time and oft had Harold loved, or dream'd he'd loved since Rapture is a dream.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd

I see before me the Gladiator lie: / He leans upon his hand - his manly brow / Consents to death, but conquers agony.

The great object of life is sensation- to feel that we exist, even though in pain.

I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.

Where there is mystery, it is generally supposed there must be evil.

History, with all her volumes vast, hath but one page

There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

More brave than firm,
and more disposed to dare
And die at once
than wrestle with despair ...

Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.

A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover
but will sooner or later find a tyrant.

The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.

Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth,
Sweet is revenge
especially to women

There is no instinct like that of the heart.

I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.

Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, the Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.

So much alarmed that she is quite alarming

Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.

To have joy, one must share it.

I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.

He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,
And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.

Be hypocritical, be cautious, be Not what you seem, but always what you see.

Happiness was born a twin.

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist then Pleasure.

Revenge is as the tigers spring,
Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real
Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.

Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

...methinks the older that one grows,
Inclines us more to laugh the scold, though laughter
Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after.

Life's enchanted cup sparkles near the brim

Gwynned lies two days westwards; still further south, the weregeld calls. Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour, my deeds may yet inspire the skalds.

All who joy would win
Must share it
Happiness was born a twin.

Even innocence itself has many a wile,
And will not dare to trust itself with truth,
And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.

There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

Love in full life and length, not love ideal,
No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name,
But something better still, so very real ...

For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear.

Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.

If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.

You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?

Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.

I awoke one morning to find myself famous.

And mine's a bubble not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays.

Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure;
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.

And there the stories
Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted
His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.