Lord Byron

"Take heed you find not what you do not seek."

"Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms."

"Truth is stranger than fiction."

"When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past— For years fleet away with the wings of the dove— The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love."

"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."

"I only know we loved in vain; I only feel — farewell! farewell!"

"When we two parted In silence and tears, Half brokenhearted, To sever for years."

"In secret we met In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears."

"Near this spot Are deposited the Remains of one Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, And all the virtues of Man, without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery If inscribed over human ashes, Is but a just tribute to the Memory of BOATSWAIN, a DOG"

"The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend."

"Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart!"

"The love where Death has set his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow."

"And thou wert lovely to the last, Extinguish'd, not decay'd; As stars that shoot along the sky Shine brightest as they fall from high."

"If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom."

"Where may the wearied eye repose When gazing on the Great; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state? Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath'd the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one!"

"You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell With a deep thought, and with a softened eye, On that Old Sexton's natural homily, In which there was Obscurity and Fame, The Glory and the Nothing of a Name."

"Who knows whether, when a comet shall approach this globe to destroy it, as it often has been and will be destroyed, men will not tear rocks from their foundations by means of steam, and hurl mountains, as the giants are said to have done, against the flaming mass?—and then we shall have traditions of Titans again, and of wars with Heaven."

"My great comfort is, that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and prejudices. I have flattered no ruling powers; I have never concealed a single thought that tempted me."

"Fare thee well! and if forever, Still forever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel."

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

"Oh, God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood."

"A light broke in upon my brain, — It was the carol of a bird; It ceased, and then it came again, The sweetest song ear ever heard."

"There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away."

"There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me."

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

"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."

"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."

"The careful pilot of my proper woe."

"As the liberty lads o'er the sea Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, So we, boys, we Shall die fighting or live free, And down with all kings but King Ludd!"

"My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore. Here's a double health to thee!"

"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."

"Were't the last drop in the well, As I gasp'd upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell 'T is to thee that I would drink."

""Bring forth the horse!" — the horse was brought; In truth, he was a noble steed, A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, Who look'd as though the speed of thought Were in his limbs."

"And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong."

"When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, Let him combat for that of his neighbours; Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome And get knock'd on the head for his labours. To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, And is always as nobly requited; Then battle for freedom wherever you can. And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted."

"Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty."

"The best of prophets of the future is the past."

"The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses that pull, Each tugs in a different way— And the greatest of all is John Bull!"

"Send me no more reviews of any kind. — I will read no more of evil or good in that line. — Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years."

"Because He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow? I judge but by the fruits—and they are bitter— Which I must feed on for a fault not mine."

"I live, But live to die: and, living, see no thing To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, A loathsome and yet all invincible Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I Despise myself, yet cannot overcome— And so I live. Would I had never lived!"

"That which I am, I am; I did not seek For life, nor did I make myself."

"Who killed John Keats? "I," says the Quarterly, So savage and Tartarly; "'Twas one of my feats.""

"He seems To have seen better days, as who has not Who has seen yesterday?"

"What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!"

"My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of Love are gone; The worm — the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!"

"Seek out — less often sought than found — A Soldier's Grave, for thee the best; Then look around and choose thy Ground, And take thy Rest."

"I awoke one morning and found myself famous."

"A great poet belongs to no country; his works are public property, and his Memoirs the inheritance of the public."

"Hands promiscuously applied, Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side."

"They never fail who die In a great cause."

"Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship."

"Lord of himself,—that heritage of woe!"

"It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word."

"Yet in my lineaments they trace Some features of my father's face."

"Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred."

"Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones, Whose table earth, whose dice were human bones."

"I loved my country, and I hated him."

"Friendship is Love without wings."

"What say you to such a supper with such a woman?"

"I'll publish right or wrong: Fools are my theme, let satire be my song."

"'Tis pleasure, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't."

"A man must serve his time to every trade Save censure — critics are ready-made."

"With just enough of learning to misquote."

"As soon Seek roses in December, ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in critics, who themselves are sore."

"Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye."

"Oh, Amos Cottle! Phœbus! what a name!"

"'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: 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."

"Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,— Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best."

"Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!"

"Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?"

"The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the music breathing from her face, 19 The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,— And oh, that eye was in itself a soul!"

"Who hath not proved how feebly words essay To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray? Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart, confess The might, the majesty of loveliness?"

"The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle."

"Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life, The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray!"

"Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease! He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace!"

"Hark! to the hurried question of despair: "Where is my child?"—an echo answers, "Where?""

"He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled,— The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, Before decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers."

"Such is the aspect of this shore; 'T is Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there."

"Shrine of the mighty! can it be That this is all remains of thee?"

"For freedom's battle, once begun, Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, Though baffled oft, is ever won."

"And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every woe a tear can claim Except an erring sister's shame."

"The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed."

"Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock."

"The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name."

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

"She was a form of life and light That seen, became a part of sight, And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, The morning-star of memory! Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Alla given, To lift from earth our low desire."

"The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse."

"Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried."

"O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 22 Survey our empire, and behold our home! These are our realms, no limit to their sway,— Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey."

"She walks the waters like a thing of life, And seems to dare the elements to strife."

"The power of thought,—the magic of the mind!"

"Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one!"

"There was a laughing devil in his sneer."

"Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed farewell!"

"Farewell! For in that word, that fatal word,—howe'er We promise, hope, believe,—there breathes despair."

"No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe."

"He left a corsair's name to other times, Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes."

"She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies."

"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; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom. And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! Away; we know that tears are vain, That death nor heeds nor hears distress; Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou—who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet."

"So gleams the past, the light of other days, Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays."

"The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee."

"For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast."

"And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!"

"When all of genius which can perish dies."

"Folly loves the martyrdom of fame."

"Who track the steps of glory to the grave."

"Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, And broke the die, in molding Sheridan."

"And both were young, and one was beautiful."

"And to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him."

"She was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all."

"A change came o'er the spirit of my dream."

"And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful That God alone was to be seen in heaven."

"Titan! to whom immortal eyes The sufferings of mortality Seen in their sad reality, Were not as things that gods despise; What was thy pity's recompense? A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless."

"Titan! to thee the strife was given Between the suffering and the will, Which torture where they cannot kill; And the inexorable Heaven, And the deaf tyranny of Fate, The ruling principle of Hate, Which for its pleasure doth create The things it may annihilate, Refused thee even the boon to die: The wretched gift eternity Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee, But would not to appease him tell; And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his Soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled, That in his hand the lightnings trembled."

"Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less The sum of human wretchedness, And strengthen Man with his own mind; But baffled as thou wert from high, Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose Itself — and equal to all woes, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can decry Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory."

"Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most Must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth, The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life."

"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."

"By thy cold breast and serpent smile, By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, By that most seeming virtuous eye, By thy shut soul's hypocrisy; By the perfection of thine art Which pass'd for human thine own heart; By thy delight in others' pain, And by thy brotherhood of Cain, I call upon thee! and compel Thyself to be thy proper Hell!"

"My mother Earth! And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye. And thou, the bright eye of the universe, That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight—thou shin'st not on my heart."

"But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar."

"To be thus— Grey-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, Which but supplies a feeling to decay— And to be thus, eternally but thus, Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years And hours—all tortured into ages—hours Which I outlive!—Ye toppling crags of ice! Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me! I hear ye momently above, beneath, Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass, And only fall on things that still would live."

"Patience! Hence—that word was made For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey; Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,— I am not of thine order."

"Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine Have made my days and nights imperishable Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore Innumerable atoms; and one desert Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks, Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness."

"From my youth upwards My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes; The thirst of their ambition was not mine, The aim of their existence was not mine; My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers Made me a stranger."

"Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance."

"Whate'er I may have been, or am, doth rest between Heaven and myself; I shall not choose a mortal To be my mediator."

"There is no power in holy men, Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast, Nor agony—nor, greater than all these, The innate tortures of that deep despair, Which is remorse without the fear of hell, But all in all sufficient to itself Would make a hell of heaven,—can exorcise From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge Upon itself; there is no future pang Can deal that justice on the self—condemn'd He deals on his own soul."

"The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the Night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world."

"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."

"Old man! ’tis not so difficult to die."

"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."

"For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest."

"Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon."

"For most men (till by losing rendered sager) Will back their own opinions by a wager."

"Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, Wished him five fathom under the Rialto."

"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."

"Besides, they always smell of bread and butter."

"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."

"Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies."

"O Mirth and Innocence! O milk and water! Ye happy mixtures of more happy days."

"How my soul hates This language, Which makes life itself a lie, Flattering dust with eternity."

"By all that's good and glorious."

"Eat, drink, and love; the rest's not worth a fillip."

"I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse — borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be — let it end."

"But take this with thee: if I was not form'd To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I've doted On lesser charms, for no cause save that such Devotion was a duty, and I hated All that look'd like a chain for me or others (This even rebellion must avouch); yet hear These words, perhaps among my last — that none E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not To profit by them…"

"Oh! if thou hast at length Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, I ask no more—but let us hence together, And I — let me say we — shall yet be happy. Assyria is not all the earth—we'll find A world out of our own — and be more bless'd Than I have ever been, or thou, with all An empire to indulge thee."

"The dust we tread upon was once alive."

"My best! my last friends! Let's not unman each other: part at once: All farewells should be sudden, when for ever, Else they make an eternity of moments, And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. Hence, and be happy: trust me, I am not Now to be pitied; or far more for what Is past than present; — for the future, 'tis In the hands of the deities, if such There be: I shall know soon. Farewell — Farewell."

"The "good old times" — all times when old are good — Are gone."

"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?"

"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."

"Sublime tobacco! which from east to west Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest."

"Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; Like other charmers, wooing the caress More dazzlingly when daring in full dress; Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties—give me a cigar!"

"Jack was embarrassed — never hero more, And as he knew not what to say, he swore."

"She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, And of the folly of all prudish fears, Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: [...] When people say, "I've told you fifty times," They mean to scold, and very often do: When poets say, "I've written fifty rhymes," They make you dread that they'll recite them too; In gangs of fifty thieves commit their crimes: At fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true, But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, A good deal may be bought for fifty louis."

"But now at thirty years my hair is gray–– (I wonder what it will be like at forty? I thought of a peruke the other day) My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May, And feel no more the spirit to retort; I Have spent my life, both interest and principal, And deem not, what I deem'd my soul invincible."

"What is the end of fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust."

"Both were so young, and one so innocent, That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent, Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, A something to be loved, a creature meant To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd To render happy; all who joy would win Must share it,––Happiness was born a twin."

"It would be difficult, perhaps, to find the annals of a nation less stained with crimes than those of the Armenians, whose virtues have been those of peace, and their vices those of compulsion. But whatever may have been their destiny — and it has been bitter — whatever it may be in future, their country must ever be one of the most interesting on the globe."

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

"What helps it now, that Byron bore, With haughty scorn which mocked the smart, Through Europe to the Aetolian shore The pageant of his bleeding heart? That thousands counted every groan, And Europe made his woe her own?"

"If they had said that the sun or the moon had gone out of the heavens, it could not have struck me with the idea of a more awful and dreary blank in creation than the words: "Byron is dead!""

"The world is rid of Lord Byron, but the deadly slime of his touch still remains."

"Lord Byron is great only as a poet; as soon as he reflects, he is a child."

"It still saddens me that Lord Byron, who showed such impatience with the fickle public, wasn't aware of how well the Germans can understand him and how highly they esteem him. With us the moral and political tittle-tattle of the day falls away, leaving the man and the talent standing alone in all their brilliance."

"Emotional sorrow has inspired many sublime lyrics, much profound insight and poetic exultation of a Byron, Shelley, Heine, and their kind."

"Lord Byron makes man after his own image, woman after his own heart; the one is a capricious tyrant, the other a yielding slave."

"Whatever he does, he must do in a more decided and daring manner than any one else; he lounges with extravagance, and yawns so as to alarm the reader!"

"In a room at the end of the garden to this house was a magnificent rocking-horse, which a friend had given my little boy; and Lord Byron, with a childish glee becoming a poet, would ride upon it. Ah! why did he ever ride his Pegasus to less advantage?"

"The list of writers, artists, and composers who were directly inspired by Byron's life and poetry is almost without peer; it includes Hector Berlioz, Alexander Pushkin, J. M. W. Turner, Robert Schumann, Victor Hugo, Alfred-Victor de Vigny, Alfred de Musset, Giuseppe Verdi, Gaetano Donizetti, Franz Liszt, Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Arnold Schoenberg, Gioacchino Rossini, Charles Baudelaire, and Virgil Thomson. Not surprisingly, most of these influenced by Byron were themselves intensely emotional and inclined toward the Romantic."

"You speak of Lord Byron and me — there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees — I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task."

"Mad, bad and dangerous to know."

"From the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a system of ethics, compounded of misanthropy and voluptuousness, a system in which the two great commandments were, to hate your neighbour, and to love your neighbour's wife."

"I never heard a single expression of fondness for him fall from the lips of any of those who knew him well."

"Tragedy of childhood. Not infrequently, noble-minded and ambitious men have to endure their harshest struggle in childhood, perhaps by having to assert their characters against a low-minded father, who is devoted to pretense and mendacity, or by living, like Lord Byron, in continual struggle with a childish and wrathful mother. If one has experienced such struggles, for the rest of his life he will never get over knowing who has been in reality his greatest and most dangerous enemy."

"Always looking at himself in mirrors to make sure he was sufficiently outrageous."

"Had Byron never written a line of poetry, his letters would give him a place in literature."

"Our Lord Byron — the fascinating — faulty — childish — philosophical being — daring the world — docile to a private circle — impetuous and indolent — gloomy and yet more gay than any other."

"If I could envy any man for successful ill nature I should envy Lord Byron for his skill in satirical nomenclature."

"The news came to the village — the dire news which spread across the land, filling men's hearts with consternation — that Byron was dead. Tennyson was then about a boy of fifteen."Byron was dead! I thought the whole world was at an end," he once said, speaking of those bygone days. "I thought everything was over and finished for everyone — that nothing else mattered. I remembered I walked out alone, and carved 'Byron is dead' into the sandstone.""

"Hämnden är ljuv."

"Take an old dirty, hungry, mangy, sick and wet dog and feed him and wash him and nurse him back to health, and he will never turn on you and bite you. This is how man and dog differ."

"Put himself upon his good behaviour."

"حبل الكذب قصير"

"Im Becher ersaufen mehr als im Meer."

"Čuvaj se mačaka koje sprijeda ližu, a straga udaraju."

"Virtue will have greater claims To love, than rank with vice combin'd."