Top 614 Quotes & Sayings by Lord Byron - Page 9

The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!

With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.

And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.

There is, in fact, no law or government at all; and it is wonderful how well things go on without them.

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.

But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.

Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.

Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, And shook within their pyramids to hear A new Cambyses thundering in their ear; While the dark shades of forty ages stood Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood.

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

Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.

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

[Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.

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.

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.

It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?

The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel.

Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.

But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth; The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth: Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.

There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres.

Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.

Here lies interred in the eternity of the past, from whence there is no resurrection for the days - whatever there may be for the dust - the thirty-third year of an ill-spent life, which, after a lingering disease of many months sank into a lethargy, and expired, January 22d, 1821, A.D. leaving a successor inconsolable for the very loss which occasioned its existence.

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.

Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!

I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea.

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.

Poetry should only occupy the idle.

Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.

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.

I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.

None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.

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.

So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.

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

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

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.

My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.

Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean

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.

Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.

Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!

Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader; Some by a place--as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

Muse of the many twinkling feet, whose charms are now extending up from legs to arms.

Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

Marriage, from love, like vinegar from wine-- A sad, sour sober beverage--by time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor Down to a very homely household savor.

The French courage proceeds from vanity

Yes! Ready money is Aladdin's lamp.

Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore.

A quiet conscience makes one so serene.

It is not one man nor a million, but the spirit of liberty that must be preserved. The waves which dash upon the shore are, one by one, broken, but the ocean conquers nevertheless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears out the rock. In like manner, whatever the struggle of individuals, the great cause will gather strength.

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still the master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth, While man, vain insect hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.