Quotes by Lord Byron
My time has been passed viciously and agreeably; at thirty-one so few years months days hours or minutes remain that Carpe Diem is not enough. I have been obliged to crop even the seconds-for who can trust to tomorrow?
Truth is always strange, stranger than fiction.
Let none think to fly the danger for soon or late love is his own avenger.
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, and to his very valet seemed a hero.
In solitude, where we are least alone.
Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tries, the Bores and Bored.
A mistress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you are lovers; and when it is over, anything but friends.
To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, streams like the thunderstorm against the wind.
What an antithetical mind! - tenderness, roughness - delicacy, coarseness - sentiment, sensuality - soaring and groveling, dirt and deity - all mixed up in that one compound of inspired clay!
There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.
As long as I retain my feeling and my passion for Nature, I can partly soften or subdue my other passions and resist or endure those of others.
Why did she love him? Curious fool - be still - is human love the growth of human will?
There is, in fact, no law or government at all [in Italy]; and it is wonderful how well things go on without them.
If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.
The Cardinal is at his wit's end - it is true that he had not far to go.
Oh Time! the beautifier of the dead, adorer of the ruin, comforter and only healer when the heart hath bled... Time, the avenger!
A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.
When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep, eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning - how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse.
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.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll have a bit of a tussle before I let it get in again to that of any other.
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.
But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
