Lord Byron

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 …

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.

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

none E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not To profit by them…

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

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.

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

By all that's good and glorious.

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

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

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

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 …

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

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.

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

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

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

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.

Old man! ’tis not so difficult to die.

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.