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The Basis Of Your Religion Is Injustice. The Son Of God The Pure, The Immaculate, The Innocent, Is Sacrificed For The Guilty. This Proves His Heroism, But No More Does Away With Man's Sin Than A School Boy's Volunteering To Be Flogged For Another Would Exculpate A Dunce From Negligence.

-Lord Byron

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The Basis Of Your

Lord Byron

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The Basis Of Your Religion Is Injustice. The Son Of God The Pure, The Immaculate, The Innocent, Is Sacrificed For The Guilty. This Proves His Heroism, But No More Does Away With Man's Sin Than A School Boy's Volunteering To Be Flogged For Another Would Exculpate A Dunce From Negligence.

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Nothing Can Confound A Wise Man More Than Laughter From A Dunce.

Tis Not On Youth's Smooth Cheek The Blush Alone, Which Fades So Fast, But The Tender Bloom Of Heart Is Gone, Ere Youth Itself Be Past.

As To Don Juan, Confess That It Is The Sublime Of That There Sort Of Writing; It May Be Bawdy, But Is It Not Good English? It May Be Profligate, But Is It Not Life, Is It Not The Thing? Could Any Man Have Written It Who Has Not Lived In The World? And Tooled In A Post-chaise? In A Hackney Coach? In A Gondola? Against A Wall? In A Court Carriage? In A Vis A Vis? On A Table? And Under It?

So Sweet The Blush Of Bashfulness, E'en Pity Scarce Can Wish It Less!

Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude, And Nothing More Diverts It From Its Sad Visions Of The Other World Than Calling It At Moments Back To This. The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

For A Man To Become A Poet (witness Petrarch And Dante), He Must Be In Love, Or Miserable.

They Say That Hope Is Happiness But Genuine Love Must Prize The Past; And Mem'ry Wakes The Thoughts That Bless: They Rose First -- They Set The Last. And All That Mem'ry Loves The Most Was Once Our Only Hope To Be: And All That Hope Adored And Lost Hath Melted Into Memory. Alas! It Is Delusion All-- The Future Cheats Us From Afar: Nor Can We Be What We Recall, Nor Dare We Think On What We Are.

What Is The End Of Fame? 'tis But To Fill A Certain Portion Of Uncertain Paper: Some Liken It To Climbing Up A Hill, Whose Summit, Like All Hills, Is Lost In Vapour: For This Men Write, Speak, Preach, And Heroes Kill, And Bards Burn What They Call Their "midnight Taper," To Have, When The Original Is Dust, A Name, A Wretched Picture, And Worse Bust.

'tis Very Certain The Desire Of Life Prolongs It.

If I Don't Write To Empty My Mind, I Go Mad.

I Do Detest Everything Which Is Not Perfectly Mutual.

Of Religion I Know Nothing -- At Least, In Its Favor.

Positive Atheism

As Soon Seek Roses In December, Ice In June, Hope Constancy In Wind, Or Corn In Chaff Believe A Woman Or An Epitaph Or Any Other Thing That’s False Before You Trust In Critics.

And Dreams In Their Development Have Breath, And Tears, And Tortures, And The Touch Of Joy; They Have A Weight Upon Our Waking Thoughts, They Take A Weight From Off Our Waking Toils, They Do Divide Our Being.

I Am So Convinced Of The Advantages Of Looking At Mankind Instead Of Reading About Them, . . . That I Think There Should Be A Law Amongst Us To Set Our Young Men Abroad For A Term Among The Few Allies Our Wars Have Left Us.

And Doubt And Discord Step 'twixt Thine And Thee.

A Pretty Woman Is A Welcome Guest.

Out Of Chaos God Made A World, And Out Of High Passions Comes A People.

Yes, Love Indeed Is Light From Heaven; A Spark Of That Immortal Fire With Angels Shared, By Allah Given To Lift From Earth Our Low Desire.

He Had Kept The Whiteness Of His Soul, And Thus Men O'er Him Wept.

There Is, In Fact, No Law Or Government At All; And It Is Wonderful How Well Things Go On Without Them.

I Am Ashes Where Once I Was Fire.

For Pleasures Past I Do Not Grieve, Nor Perils Gathering Near; My Greatest Grief Is That I Leave Nothing That Claims A Tear.

The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

What Is Fame? The Advantage Of Being Known By People Of Whom You Yourself Know Nothing, And For Whom You Care As Little.

Roll On, Deep And Dark Blue Ocean, Roll. Ten Thousand Fleets Sweep Over Thee In Vain. Man Marks The Earth With Ruin, But His Control Stops With The Shore.

Time Strips Our Illusions Of Their Hue, And One By One In Turn, Some Grand Mistake Casts Off Its Bright Skin Yearly Like The Snake.

I Die But First I Have Possessed, And Come What May, I Have Been Blessed.

Letter Writing Is The Only Device Combining Solitude With Good Company.

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods.

Lord Of Himself; That Heritage Of Woe!

All Tragedies Are Finished By A Death, All Comedies Are Ended By A Marriage.

That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are Song, The Poetry Of Speech.

What A Strange Thing Is Man! And What A Stranger Is Woman.

Her Great Merit Is Finding Out Mine; There Is Nothing So Amiable As Discernment.

I Had A Dream, Which Was Not At All A Dream.

The Fact Is That My Wife If She Had Common Sense Would Have More Power Over Me Than Any Other Whatsoever, For My Heart Always Alights Upon The Nearest Perch.

But Mighty Nature Bounds As From Her Birth; The Sun Is In The Heavens, And Life On Earth: Flowers In The Valley, Splendor In The Beam, Health On The Gale, And Freshness In The Stream.

Never To Talk To Ones Self Is A Form Of Hypocrisy

There Is Something To Me Very Softening In The Presence Of A Woman, Some Strange Influence, Even If One Is Not In Love With Them, Which I Cannot At All Account For, Having No Very High Opinion Of The Sex. But Yet, I Always Feel In Better Humor With Myself And Every Thing Else, If There Is A Woman Within Ken.

Muse Of The Many Twinkling Feet, Whose Charms Are Now Extending Up From Legs To Arms.

Love Will Find A Way Through Paths Where Wolves Fear To Prey.

Happy Valentines Day

No Hand Can Make The Clock Strike For Me The Hours That Are Passed.

A Thirst For Gold, The Beggar's Vice, Which Can But Overwhelm The Meanest Hearts.

A Celebrity Is One Who Is Known To Many Persons He Is Glad He Doesn't Know.

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.

Then Stirs The Feeling Infinite, So Felt In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

It Is Not For Minds Like Ours To Give Or To Receive Flatter; Yet The Praises Of Sincerity Have Ever Been Permitted To The Voice Of Friendship

Who Falls From All He Knows Of Bliss, Cares Little Into What Abyss.

So Bright The Tear In Beauty's Eye, Love Half Regrets To Kiss It Dry.

And Angling Too, That Solitary Vice, What Izaak Walton Sings Or Says: The Quaint, Old, Cruel Coxcomb, In His Gullet Should Have A Hook, And A Small Trout To Pull It.

Think'st Thou There Is No Tyranny But That Of Blood And Chains? The Despotism Of Vice-- The Weakness And The Wickedness Of Luxury-- The Negligence--the Apathy--the Evils Of Sensual Sloth--produces Ten Thousand Tyrants, Whose Delegated Cruelty Surpasses The Worst Acts Of One Energetic Master, However Harsh And Hard In His Own Bearing.

But There Are Wanderers O'er Eternity Whose Bark Drives On And On, And Anchor'd Ne'er Shall Be.

My Heart In Passion, And My Head On Rhymes.

All Human History Attests That Happiness For Man, - The Hungry Sinner! - Since Eve Ate Apples, Much Depends On Dinner. ~lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto Xiii, Stanza 99

My Turn Of Mind Is So Given To Taking Things In The Absurd Point Of View, That It Breaks Out In Spite Of Me Every Now And Then.

'tis Sweet To Know There Is An Eye Will Mark Our Coming, And Look Brighter When We Come.

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods, There Is Rapture In The Lonely Shore, There Is Society Where None Intrudes, By The Deep Sea, And Music In Its Roar; I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

From The Mingled Strength Of Shade And Light A New Creation Rises To My Sight, Such Heav'nly Figures From His Pencil Flow, So Warm With Light His Blended Colors Glow. . . . . The Glowing Portraits, Fresh From Life, That Bring Home To Our Hearts The Truth From Which They Spring.

The Coach Does Not Play In The Game, But The Coach Helps The Players Identify Areas To Improve Their Game.

There Is A Tear For All Who Die, A Mourner O'er The Humblest Grave.

To Have Joy, One Must Share It.

In Commitment, We Dash The Hopes Of A Thousand Potential Selves.

Then Rose From Sea To Sky The Wild Farewell Then Shriek'd The Timid, And Stood Still The Brave, Then Some Leap'd Overboard With Fearful Yell, As Eager To Anticipate Their Grave.

That Famish'd People Must Be Slowly Nurst, And Fed By Spoonfuls, Else They Always Burst.

Send Me No More Reviews Of Any Kind. I Will Read No More Of Evil Or Good In That Line. Walter Scott Has Not Read A Review Of Himself For Thirteen Years .

Are Not The Mountains, Waves, And Skies As Much A Part Of Me, As I Of Them?

I Learned To Love Despair.

Good But Rarely Came From Good Advice.

Sweet Is Old Wine In Bottles, Ale In Barrels.

And Hold Up To The Sun My Little Taper.

The Lapse Of Ages Changes All Things - Time - Language - The Earth - The Bounds Of The Sea - The Stars Of The Sky, And Everything 'about, Around, And Underneath' Man, Except Man Himself, Who Has Always Been And Always Will Be, An Unlucky Rascal. The Infinite Variety Of Lives Conduct But To Death, And The Infinity Of Wishes Lead But To Disappointment. All The Discoveries Which Have Yet Been Made Have Multiplied Little But Existence.

Father Of Light! Great God Of Heaven! Hear'st Thou The Accents Of Despair? Can Guilt Like Man's Be E'er Forgiven? Can Vice Atone For Crimes By Prayer.

For The Night Shows Stars And Women In A Better Light.

If I Am Fool, It Is, At Least, A Doubting One; And I Envy No One The Certainty Of His Self-approved Wisdom.

Next To Dressing For A Rout Or Ball, Undressing Is A Woe.

Maidens, Like Moths, Are Ever Caught, By Glare, And Mammon Wins His Way Where Seraphs Might Despair.

The Bright Sun Was Extinguish'd, And The Stars Did Wander Darkling In The Eternal Space.

There's Not A Joy The World Can Give Like That It Takes Away.

Ah, Nut-brown Partridges! Ah, Brilliant Pheasants! And Ah, Ye Poachers!--'tis No Sport For Peasants.

The Sight Of Blood To Crowds Begets The Thirst Of More, As The First Wine-cup Leads To The Long Revel.

I Hate All Pain, Given Or Received; We Have Enough Within Us The Meanest Vassal As The Loftiest Monarch, Not To Add To Each Other's Natural Burden Of Mortal Misery.

When People Say, "i've Told You Fifty Times," They Mean To Scold, And Very Often Do; When Poets Say, "i've Written Fifty Rhymes," They Make You Dread That They'll Recite Them Too; In Gangs Of Fifty, Thieves Commit Their Crimes; At Fifty Love For Love Is Rare, 't Is True, But Then, No Doubt, It Equally As True Is, A Good Deal May Be Bought For Fifty Louis.

I Live Not In Myself, But I Become Portion Of That Around Me: And To Me High Mountains Are A Feeling, But The Hum Of Human Cities Torture.

Tis Said That Persons Living On Annuities Are Longer Lived Than Others.

I Have A Passion For The Name Of "mary," For Once It Was A Magic Sound To Me, And Still It Half Calls Up The Realms Of Fairy, Where I Beheld What Never Was To Be.

With Flowing Tail And Flying Mane, Wide Nostrils Never Stretched By Pain, Mouth Bloodless To Bit Or Rein, And Feet That Iron Never Shod, And Flanks Unscar'd By Spur Or Rod, A Thousand Horses - The Wild - The Free - Like Waves That Follow O'er The Sea, Came Thickly Thundering On.

Venice Once Was Dear, The Pleasant Place Of All Festivity, The Revel Of The Earth, The Masque Of Italy.

Religion-freedom-vengeance-what You Will, A Word's Enough To Raise Mankind To Kill.

By Headless Charles See Heartless Henry Lies.

Where Are The Forms The Sculptor's Soul Hath Seized? In Him Alone, Can Nature Show As Fair?

To Withdraw Myself From Myself Has Ever Been My Sole, My Entire, My Sincere Motive In Scribbling At All.

This Is The Age Of Oddities Let Loose.

I Only Know We Loved In Vain; I Only Feel-farewell! Farewell!

There Are Some Feelings Time Cannot Benumb, Nor Torture Shake.

I Live, But Live To Die: And, Living, See Nothing To Make Death Hateful, Save An Innate Clinging, A Loathsome And Yet All Invincible Instinct Of Life, Which I Abhor, As I Despise Myself, Yet Cannot Overcome — And So I Live. Would I Had Never Lived!

And What Is Writ Is Writ - / Would It Were Worthier!

Oh Who Can Tell, Save He Whose Heart Hath Tried.

Sublime Tobacco! Which From East To West, Cheers The Tar's Labour Or The Turkman's Rest; Which On The Moslem's Ottoman Divides His Hours, And Rivals Opium And His Brides; Magnificent In Stamboul, But Less Grand, Though Not Less Loved, In Wapping Or The Strand: Divine In Hookas, Glorious In A Pipe, When Tipp'd With Amber, Mellow, Rich, And Ripe; Like Other Charmers Wooing The Caress, More Dazzlingly When Daring In Full Dress; Yet Thy True Lovers More Admire By Far Thy Naked Beauties Give Me A Cigar!

He Learned The Arts Of Riding, Fencing, Gunnery, And How To Scale A Fortress - Or A Nunnery.

I See Before Me The Gladiator Lie.

...and These Vicissitudes Come Best In Youth; For When They Happen At A Riper Age, People Are Apt To Blame The Fates, Forsooth, And Wonder Providence Is Not More Sage. Adversity Is The First Path To Truth: He Who Hath Proved War, Storm, Or Woman's Rage, Whether His Winters Be Eighteen Or Eighty, Has Won Experience Which Is Deem'd So Weighty.

Nothing So Fretful, So Despicable As A Scribbler, See What I Am, And What A Parcel Of Scoundrels I Have Brought About My Ears, And What Language I Have Been Obliged To Treat Them With To Deal With Them In Their Own Way; - All This Comes Of Authorship.

[my Advice] Will One Day Be Found With Other Relics Of 'a Former World,' When This World Shall Be Former, Underground, Thrown Topsy-turvy, Twisted, Crisped, And Curled, Baked, Fried Or Burnt, Turned Inside-out, Or Drowned, Like All The Worlds Before, Which Have Been Hurled First Out Of, And Then Back Again To Chaos, The Superstratum Which Will Overlay Us.

The Truly Brave Are Soft Of Heart And Eyes, And Feel For What Their Duty Bids Them Do.

A Material Resurrection Seems Strange And Even Absurd Except For Purposes Of Punishment, And All Punishment Which Is To Revenge Rather Than Correct Must Be Morally Wrong, And When The World Is At An End, What Moral Or Warning Purpose Can Eternal Tortures Answer?

That Low Vice, Curiosity!

Sometimes We Are Less Unhappy In Being Deceived By Those We Love, Than In Being Undeceived By Them.

What An Antithetical Mind! - Tenderness, Roughness - Delicacy, Coarseness - Sentiment, Sensuality - Soaring And Groveling, Dirt And Deity - All Mixed Up In That One Compound Of Inspired Clay!

Books, Manuals, Directives, Regulations. The Geometries That Circumscribe Your Working Life Draw Norrower And Norrower Until Nothing Fits Inside Them Anymore.

A Quiet Conscience Makes One So Serene.

And Mocha's Berry, From Arabia Pure, In Small Fine China Cups, Came In At Last. Gold Cups Of Filigree, Made To Secure The Hand From Burning, Underneath Them Place. Cloves, Cinnamon And Saffron, Too, Were Boiled Up With The Coffee, Which, I Think, They Spoiled.

Egeria! Sweet Creation Of Some Heart Which Found No Mortal Resting-place So Fair As Thine Ideal Breast.

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

Gone, Glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were.

But At Sixteen The Conscience Rarely Gnaws So Much, As When We Call Our Old Debts In At Sixty Years, And Draw The Accounts Of Evil, And Find A Deuced Balance With The Devil.

For What Were All These Country Patriots Born? To Hunt, And Vote, And Raise The Price Of Corn?

It Would Be Difficult, Perhaps, To Find The Annals Of A Nation Less Stained With Crimes Than Those Of The Armenians, Whose Virtues Have Been Those Of Peace, And Their Vices Those Of Compulsion. But Whatever May Have Been Their Destiny And It Has Been Bitter Whatever It May Be In Future, Their Country Must Ever Be One Of The Most Interesting On The Globe.

I Doubt Sometimes Whether A Quiet And Unagitated Life Would Have Suited Me - Yet I Sometimes Long For It.

I Am About To Be Married, And Am Of Course In All The Misery Of A Man In Pursuit Of Happiness.

This Man Is Freed From Servile Bands, Of Hope To Rise, Or Fear To Fall; Lord Of Himself, Though Not Of Lands, And Leaving Nothing, Yet Hath All.

In General I Do Not Draw Well With Literary Men -- Not That I Dislike Them But I Never Know What To Say To Them After I Have Praised Their Last Publication.

Just As Old Age Is Creeping On Space, And Clouds Come O'er The Sunset Of Our Day, They Kindly Leave Us, Though Not Quite Alone, But In Good Company--the Gout Or Stone.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

A Rose With All Its Sweetest Leaves Yet Folded.

The Place Is Very Well And Quiet And The Children Only Scream In A Low Voice.

Go Let Thy Less Than Woman's Hand Assume The Distaff Not The Brand.

Good Work And Joyous Play Go Hand In Hand. When Play Stops, Old Age Begins. Play Keeps You From Taking Life Too Seriously.

My Boat Is On The Shore, And My Bark Is On The Sea.

To Be Perfectly Original One Should Think Much And Read Little, And This Is Impossible, For One Must Have Read Before One Has Learnt To Think.

Always Laugh When You Can. It Is Cheap Medicine.

I Should Like To Know Who Has Been Carried Off, Except Poor Dear Me - I Have Been More Ravished Myself Than Anybody Since The Trojan War.

Socrates Said, Our Only Knowledge Was "to Know That Nothing Could Be Known;" A Pleasant Science Enough, Which Levels To An Ass Each Man Of Wisdom, Future, Past, Or Present. Newton, (that Proverb Of The Mind,) Alas! Declared, With All His Grand Discoveries Recent, That He Himself Felt Only "like A Youth Picking Up Shells By The Great Ocean-truth."

Have Not All Past Human Beings Parted, And Must Not All The Present, One Day Part?

Let No Man Grumble When His Friends Fall Off, As They Will Do Like Leaves At The First Breeze; When Your Affairs Come Round, One Way Or T'other, Go To The Coffee House, And Take Another.

Love Rules The Camp, The Court, The Grove - For Love Is Heaven, And Heaven Is Love.

Yet Smelt Roast Meat, Beheld A Huge Fire Shine, And Cooks In Motion With Their Clean Arms Bared.

This Is The Patent-age Of New Inventions For Killing Bodies, And For Saving Souls, All Propagated With The Best Intentions; Sir Humphrey Davy's Lantern, By Which Coals Are Safely Mined For In The Mode He Mentions, Tombuctoo Travels, Voyages To The Poles, Are Ways To Benefit Mankind, As True, Perhaps, As Shooting Them At Waterloo.

Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away; A Single Laugh Demolish'd The Right Arm Of His Own Country.

I Am Always Most Religious Upon A Sunshiny Day.

Know Ye Not Who Would Be Free Themselves Must Strike The Blow? By Their Right Arms The Conquest Must Be Wrought?

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.

Well, Well, The World Must Turn Upon Its Axis, And All Mankind Turn With It, Heads Or Tails, And Live And Die, Make Love And Pay Our Taxes, And As The Veering Winds Shift, Shift Our Sails.

And If I Laugh At Any Mortal Thing, 'tis That I May Not Weep.

We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

This Is The Patent Age Of New Inventions For Killing Bodies, And For Saving Souls. All Propagated With The Best Intentions.

Land Of Lost Gods And Godlike Men.

There Is No Instinct Like That Of The Heart.

Accursed Be The City Where The Laws Would Stifle Nature's!

Which Cheers The Sad, Revives The Old, Inspires The Young, Makes Weariness Forget His Toil, And Fear Her Danger; Opens A New World When This, The Present, Palls.

The World Is A Bundle Of Hay, Mankind Are The Asses That Pull, Each Tugs In A Different Way And The Greatest Of All Is John Bull!

Life Is Too Short For Chess.

Life Is Too Short

Life It Too Short

Grief Is Fantastical, And Loves The Dead, And The Apparel Of The Grave.

O Fame! If I Ever Took Delight In Thy Praises, Twas Less For The Sake Of Thy High-sounding Phrases, Than To See The Bright Eyes Of The Dear One Discover The Thought That I Was Not Unworthy To Love Her.

Friendship Is Love Without His Wings!

I Am No Platonist, I Am Nothing At All; But I Would Sooner Be A Paulician, Manichean, Spinozist, Gentile, Pyrrhonian, Zoroastrian, Than One Of The Seventy-two Villainous Sects Who Are Tearing Each Other To Pieces For The Love Of The Lord And Hatred Of Each Other.

A Man Of Eighty Has Outlived Probably Three New Schools Of Painting, Two Of Architecture And Poetry And A Hundred In Dress.

Man's Love Is Of Man's Life A Part; It Is A Woman's Whole Existence. In Her First Passion, A Woman Loves Her Lover, In All The Others All She Loves Is Love.

In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

Grief Should Be The Instructor Of The Wise; Sorrow Is Knowledge.

And Wrinkles, The Damned Democrats, Won't Flatter.

So We'll Go No More A-roving So Late Into The Night, Though The Heart Still Be As Loving, And The Moon Still Be As Bright. For The Sword Outwears Its Sheath, And The Soul Outwears The Breast, And The Heart Must Pause To Breathe, And Love Itself Have Rest. Though The Night Was Made For Loving, And The Day Returns Too Soon, Yet We'll Go No More A-roving By The Light Of The Moon.

Men Think Highly Of Those Who Rise Rapidly In The World; Whereas Nothing Rises Quicker Than Dust, Straw, And Feathers.

Few Things Surpass Old Wine; And They May Preach Who Please, The More Because They Preach In Vain

Dead Scandals Form Good Subjects For Dissection.

The Art Of Angling, The Cruelest, The Coldest And The Stupidest Of Pretended Sports.

Dim With The Mist Of Years, Gray Flits The Shade Of Power.

A Timid Mind Is Apt To Mistake Every Scratch For A Mortal Wound.

Prolonged Endurance Tames The Bold.

If I Don't Write To Empty My Mind, I Go Mad. As To That Regular, Uninterrupted Love Of Writing. I Do Not Understand It. I Feel It As A Torture, Which I Must Get Rid Of, But Never As A Pleasure. On The Contrary, I Think Composition A Great Pain.

Eat, Drink And Love...the Rest Is Not Worth A Nickel

Divine In Hookas, Glorious In A Pipe When Tipp'd With Amber, Mellow, Rich, And Ripe;... Yet Thy True Lovers More Admire By Far Thy Naked Beauties - Give Me A Cigar!

The Devil Was The First Democrat

O Thou Beautiful And Unimaginable Ether! And Ye Multiplying Masses Of Increased And Still Increasing Lights! What Are Ye? What Is This Blue Wilderness Of Interminable Air, Where Ye Roll Along, As I Have Seen The Leaves Along The Limpid Streams Of Eden? Is Your Course Measur'd For Ye? Or Do Ye Sweep On In Your Unbounded Revelry Through An Aerial Universe Of Endless Expansion,--at Which My Soul Aches To Think,-- Intoxicated With Eternity.

Why Do They Call Me Misanthrope? Because They Hate Me, Not I Them.

The Law Of Heaven And Earth Is Life For Life.

Heaven And Earth

War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even To The Knife!"

We Are All The Fools Of Time And Terror: Days Steal On Us And Steal From Us; Yet We Live, Loathing Our Life, And Dreading Still To Die.

Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So, Not For Thy Faults, But Mine.

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.

No Ear Can Hear Nor Tongue Can Tell The Tortures Of The Inward Hell!

Frienship Is Eros...without Wings

Death, So Called, Is A Thing Which Makes Men Weep, And Yet A Third Of Life Is Passed In Sleep.

Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

Tyranny Is For The Worst Of Treasons.

He Makes A Solitude, And Calls It - Peace!

We Are All Selfish And I No More Trust Myself Than Others With A Good Motive.

And Then He Danced,-all Foreigners Excel The Serious Angels In The Eloquence Of Pantomime;-he Danced, I Say, Right Well, With Emphasis, And A'so With Good Sense-a Thing In Footing Indispensable: He Danced Without Theatrical Pretence, Not Like A Ballet-master In The Van Of His Drill'd Nymphs, But Like A Gentleman.

A Mistress Never Is Nor Can Be A Friend. While You Agree, You Are Lovers; And When It Is Over, Anything But Friends.

Do Proper Homage To Thine Idol's Eyes; But No Too Humbly, Or She Will Despise Thee And Thy Suit, Though Told In Moving Tropes: Disguise Even Tenderness If Thou Art Wise.

The Dome Of Thought, The Palace Of The Soul.

Damn Description, It Is Always Disgusting.

Talent May Be In Time Forgiven, But Genius Never

Those Who Will Not Reason, Are Bigots, Those Who Cannot, Are Fools, And Those Who Dare Not, Are Slaves.

Of All The Horrid, Hideous Notes Of Woe, Sadder Than Owl-songs Or The Midnight Blast; Is That Portentous Phrase, "i Told You So.

I Shall Soon Be Six-and-twenty. Is There Anything In The Future That Can Possibly Console Us For Not Being Always Twenty-five?

Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent For Slumber!

The Lapse Of Ages Changes All Things - Time, Language, The Earth, The Bounds Of The Sea, The Stars Of The Sky, And Every Thing About, Around, And Underneath Man, Except Man Himself.

That Prose Is A Verse, And Verse Is A Prose; Convincing All, By Demonstrating Plain – Poetic Souls Delight In Prose Insane

Though Sages May Pour Out Their Wisdom's Treasure, There Is No Sterner Moralist Than Pleasure.

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