The "good old times" — all times when old are good — Are gone.
Byron, Lord. The Age of Bronze. 1823.
Where is he, the champion and the child Of all that's great or little, wise or wild; Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones; Whose table earth — whose dice were human bones?
Byron, Lord. The Age of Bronze. 1823.
While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven, Or drawing from the no less kindled earth Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth; While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er Shall sink while there's an echo left to air.
Byron, Lord. The Age of Bronze. 1823.
All farewells should be sudden.
Byron, Lord. Sardanapalus. 1821.
The dust we tread upon was once alive.
Byron, Lord. Sardanapalus. 1821.
I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse,—borne away with every breath!
Byron, Lord. Sardanapalus. 1821.
Eat, drink, and love; the rest's not worth a fillip.
Byron, Lord. Sardanapalus. 1821.
By all that 's good and glorious.
Byron, Lord. Sardanapalus. 1821.
Which makes life itself a lie, Flattering dust with eternity.
Byron, Lord. Sardanapalus. 1821.
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.
Byron, Lord. Beppo. 1818.
I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.
Byron, Lord. Beppo. 1818.
His heart was one of those which most enamour us, Wax to receive, and marble to retain: He was a lover of the good old school, Who still become more constant as they cool.
Byron, Lord. Beppo. 1818.
For most men (till by losing rendered sager) Will back their own opinions by a wager.
Byron, Lord. Beppo. 1818.
So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.
Byron, Lord. So, We’ll Go No More A-Roving. 1817.
So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.
Byron, Lord. So, We’ll Go No More A-Roving. 1817.
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar.
Byron, Lord. Manfred. 1817.
Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.
Byron, Lord. Manfred. 1817.
The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old! The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
Byron, Lord. Manfred. 1817.
Mont Blanc is the Monarch of mountains; They crowned him long ago, On a throne of rocks – in a robe of clouds – With a Diadem of Snow.
Byron, Lord. Manfred. 1817.
And both were young, and one was beautiful.
Byron, Lord. The Dream. 1816.
And to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him.
Byron, Lord. The Dream. 1816.
She was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all.
Byron, Lord. The Dream. 1816.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
Byron, Lord. The Dream. 1816.
And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful That God alone was to be seen in heaven.
Byron, Lord. The Dream. 1816.
When all of genius which can perish dies.
Byron, Lord. Monody on the Death of Sheridan. 1816.
Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
Byron, Lord. Monody on the Death of Sheridan. 1816.
A man must serve his time to every trade Save censure—critics are ready-made.
Byron, Lord. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 1809.
With just enough of learning to misquote.
Byron, Lord. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 1809.
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye.
Byron, Lord. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 1809.
Perverts the Prophets and purloins the Psalms.
Byron, Lord. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 1809.
