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Tis strange, -but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!George Gordon Byron
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Wedded she some years, and to a man Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty; And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE'Twere better to have TWO of five and twenty...George Gordon Byron
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All who joy would win Must share it -- Happiness was born a twin.George Gordon Byron
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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;      ’T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link      Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper – even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that’s his.George Gordon Byron
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.George Gordon Byron
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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.George Gordon Byron
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Let us have wine and woman, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda water the day after. Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of life is but intoxication: Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk The hopes of all men, and of every nation; Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion: But to return-- Get very drunk; and when You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then.George Gordon Byron
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The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;–lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nutbrown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers! –' Tis no sport for peasants.George Gordon Byron