George Gordon Noel Byron Quotes

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

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

What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some read more

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.

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so
fast,
But the tender bloom of read more

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so
fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Till taught by pain,
Men really know not what good water's worth;
If you had been in read more

Till taught by pain,
Men really know not what good water's worth;
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth,
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,
You'd wish yourself where Truth is--in a well.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
read more

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 madded to crime?

His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven,
His back to earth, his face to heaven.

His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven,
His back to earth, his face to heaven.

A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,
Condemn'd to drudge, the read more

A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean,
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine.

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
read more

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need
Of aid from them--she was the Universe.

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

There is a tear for all who die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave.
- Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron),

O ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain,
I pray read more

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.