Who then will explain the explanation? Lord Byron More Quotes by Lord Byron More Quotes From Lord Byron I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour; my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England; if false, England was unfit for me. Lord Byron noblevicesnames I only know we loved in vain; I only feel-farewell! farewell! Lord Byron vainfarewelllove By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies. Lord Byron headlessheartlesslying As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands. Lord Byron ambitionbloodfall Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not. Lord Byron smoothhypocrisyhypocrite No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed. Lord Byron wisetimehands 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 moneylovefunny That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane Lord Byron delightinsanesoul 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Byron remnantsthreeearth Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.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 hatetwilightwater 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 flamesfiredark 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 contemptassuminghands A sleep without dreams, after a rough day of toil, is what we covet most; and yet Lord Byron regretsuicidedream 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 blightexiledemon I love not man the less, but Nature more. Lord Byron earth-daynaturemen 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 hateliarswriting What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it. Lord Byron deep-woundswounds-and-scarsheart 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 librarylampslong 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 dreamplaywriting
