Lord Byron

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

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred.

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

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.

Lord of himself,—that heritage of woe!

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

They never fail who die In a great cause.

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

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

I awoke one morning and found myself famous.

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.

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!

What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!

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

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

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

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—

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.

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.

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!

The best of prophets of the future is the past.

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.

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 …

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.