Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head? — Lord Byron Copy Share Image
May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats. — Lord Byron Copy Share Image
Your thief looks Exactly like the rest, or rather better; 'Tis only at the bar, and in the dungeon, That wise men know your… — Lord Byron Copy Share Image
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her… — Lord Byron Copy Share Image
“We of the craft are all crazy. Some are affected by gaiety, others by melancholy, but all are more or less touched.” — Lord Byron Copy Share Image
Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it. — Lord Byron Copy Share Image
Here's a sigh to those who love me,And a smile to those who hate;And, whatever sky's above me,Here's a heart for every fate. — Lord Byron Copy Share Image
For most men (till by losing rendered sager), Will back their own opinions by a wager — Lord Byron Copy Share Image
