"I trust in Nature for the stable laws Of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant And Autumn garner to the end of time. I trust in God,—the right shall be the right And other than the wrong, while he endures. I trust in my own soul, that can perceive The outward and the inward,—Nature's good And God's."

"There's a woman like a dewdrop, she's so purer than the purest."

"Over my head his arm he flung Against the world."

"The lie was dead And damned, and truth stood up instead."

"Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed It's petals up."

"So, Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men — especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!"

"Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats."

"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.""

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

"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."

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

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

"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."

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

"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."

"Mad, bad and dangerous to know."

"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."

"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."

"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?"

"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!"

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

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

"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."

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

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

"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!""

"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?"

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

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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!"

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

"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."

"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?"

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

"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 dust we tread upon was once alive."

"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."

"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…"