George Gordon Noel Byron Quotes

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
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But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.

Men are the sport of circumstances, when
The circumstances seem the sport of men.

Men are the sport of circumstances, when
The circumstances seem the sport of men.

Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun
The many still must labour for the one.

Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun
The many still must labour for the one.

There was no great disparity of years,
Though much in temper; but they never clash'd,
They moved read more

There was no great disparity of years,
Though much in temper; but they never clash'd,
They moved like stars united in their spheres,
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd,
Where mingled and yet separate appears
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd
Through the serene and placid glassy deep,
Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.

Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon,
So costly were they; carpets, every stitch
Of workmanship read more

Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon,
So costly were they; carpets, every stitch
Of workmanship so rare, they make you wish
You could glide o'er them like a golden fish.

Parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps read more

Parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is gray.

If a man proves too clearly and convincingly to
himself . . . that a tiger is an optical read more

If a man proves too clearly and convincingly to
himself . . . that a tiger is an optical illusion--well, he will
find out he is wrong. The tiger will himself intervene in the
discussion, in a manner which will be in every sense conclusive.

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it,
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it,
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

And to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on read more

And to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him.

For everything seemed resting on his nod,
As they could read in all eyes. Now to them,
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For everything seemed resting on his nod,
As they could read in all eyes. Now to them,
Who were accustomed, as a sort of god,
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem,
Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad
(That royal bird, whose tail's a diadem,)
With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt
How power could condescend to do without.