Lord Byron Quotes

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.

O ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain.

There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.

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.

Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.

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

So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give, No hollow aid; alone - man with God must strive.

My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.

Lovers may be and indeed generally are enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.

He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.

Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.

The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game.

No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving.

No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!

Though the day of my Destiny 's over, And the star of my Fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find.

Well, well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering winds shift, shift our sails.

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.

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

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?

I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen.

I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.

Accursed be the city where the laws would stifle nature's!

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.

A drop of ink may make a million think.

Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.

Absence - that common cure of love.

I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me.

Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.

It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.

Poetry should only occupy the idle.

Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.

History - the devil's scripture

The basis of your religion is injustice. The Son of God the pure, the immaculate, the innocent, is sacrificed for the guilty. This proves his heroism, but no more does away with man's sin than a school boy's volunteering to be flogged for another would exculpate a dunce from negligence.

There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth

The music, and the banquet, and the wine-- The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers, The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments-- The white arms and the raven hair--the braids, And bracelets; swan-like bosoms, and the necklace, An India in itself, yet dazzling not.

In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee

He who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below.

I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, - and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth, - thou livest forever!

What a strange thing is man! And what a stranger is woman.

If 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.

And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year.