The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
Lord ByronConstancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
Lord ByronIf I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.
Lord ByronIf a man proves too clearly and convincingly to himself...that a tiger is an optical illusion--well, he will find out he is wrong. The tiger will himself intervene in the discussion, in a manner which will be in every sense conclusive.
Lord Byron