Lord Byron

It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, read more

It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment -- but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?

Hatred is the madness of the heart.

Hatred is the madness of the heart.

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, and daughters sometimes run off with the butler

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, and daughters sometimes run off with the butler

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

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

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep.