Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! Lord Byron More Quotes by Lord Byron More Quotes From Lord Byron I only know we loved in vain; I only feel-farewell! farewell! Lord Byron vain farewell love By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies. Lord Byron headless heartless lying As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands. Lord Byron ambition blood fall Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not. Lord Byron smooth hypocrisy hypocrite No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed. Lord Byron wise time hands I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week. Lord Byron money love funny That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane Lord Byron delight insane soul Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ! Lord Byron remnants three earth Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. Lord Byron hate twilight water So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death. Lord Byron flames fire dark In solitude, when we are least alone. Lord Byron solitude Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand. Lord Byron contempt assuming hands A sleep without dreams, after a rough day of toil, is what we covet most; and yet Lord Byron regret suicide dream What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought. Lord Byron blight exile demon I love not man the less, but Nature more. Lord Byron earth-day nature men But I hate things all fiction... there should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric - and pure invention is but the talent of a liar. Lord Byron hate liars writing What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it. Lord Byron deep-wounds wounds-and-scars heart I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library. Lord Byron library lamps long But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream. Lord Byron dream play writing Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine. Lord Byron faults hated farewell
