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

-Lord Byron

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The Mellow Autumn Came,

Lord 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. An, Nutbrown Partridges! An, Brilliant Pheasants! And Ah, Ye Poachers!--'tis No Sport For Peasants.

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The English Winter - Ending In July To Recommence In August

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A Woman Being Never At A Loss... The Devil Always Sticks By Them.

I Have Simplified My Politics Into An Utter Detestation Of All Existing Governments; And, As It Is The Shortest And Most Agreeable And Summary Feeling Imaginable, The First Moment Of An Universal Republic Would Convert Me Into An Advocate For Single And Uncontradicted Despotism. The Fact Is, Riches Are Power, And Poverty Is Slavery All Over The Earth, And One Sort Of Establishment Is No Better, Nor Worse, For A People Than Another.

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Self Praise Is No Praise At All.

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse -- Borne Away With Every Breath!

I Have Had, And May Have Still, A Thousand Friends, As They Are Called, In Life, Who Are Like One's Partners In The Waltz Of This World -not Much Remembered When The Ball Is Over.

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.

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Fools Are My Theme, Let Satire Be My Song.

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

Christians Have Burnt Each Other, Quite Persuaded. That All The Apostles Would Have Done As They Did.

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.

Dead Scandals Form Good Subjects For Dissection.

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

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

They Used To Say That Knowledge Is Power. I Used To Think So, But I Know Now They Mean Money.

He Makes A Solitude, And Calls It - Peace!

Be Thou The Rainbow In The Storms Of Life. The Evening Beam That Smiles The Clouds Away, And Tints Tomorrow With Prophetic Ray.

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.

If We Must Have A Tyrant, Let Him At Least Be A Gentleman Who Has Been Bred To The Business, And Let Us Fall By The Axe And Not By The Butcher's Cleaver.

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.

Roll On, Thou Deep And Dark Blue Ocean

The Sky Is Changed,-and Such A Change! O Night And Storm And Darkness! Ye Are Wondrous Strong, Yet Lovely In Your Strength, As Is The Light Of A Dark Eye In Woman! Far Along, From Peak To Peak, The Rattling Crags Among, Leaps The Live Thunder.

Man Is A Carnivorous Production, And Must Have Meals, At Least One Meal A Day; He Cannot Live, Like Woodcocks, Upon Suction, But, Like The Shark And Tiger, Must Have Prey; Although His Anatomical Construction Bears Vegetables, In A Grumbling Way, Your Laboring People Think Beyond All Question, Beef, Veal, And Mutton Better For Digestion.

I Cannot Describe To You The Despairing Sensation Of Trying To Do Something For A Man Who Seems Incapable Or Unwilling To Do Anything Further For Himself.

Fare Thee Well, And If For Ever Still For Ever Fare Thee Well.

As Long As I Retain My Feeling And My Passion For Nature, I Can Partly Soften Or Subdue My Other Passions And Resist Or Endure Those Of Others.

O Gold! I Still Prefer Thee Unto Paper, Which Makes Bank Credit Like A Bark Of Vapour.

The Reason That Adulation Is Not Displeasing Is That, Though Untrue, It Shows One To Be Of Consequence Enough, In One Way Or Other, To Induce People To Lie.

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

Romances Paint At Full Length People's Wooing. But Only Give A Bust Of Marriages.

But As To Women, Who Can Penetrate The Real Sufferings Of Their She Condition? Man's Very Sympathy With Their Estate Has Much Of Selfishness And More Suspicion. Their Love, Their Virtue, Beauty, Education, But Form Good Housekeepers, To Breed A Nation.

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

Let None Think To Fly The Danger For Soon Or Late Love Is His Own Avenger.

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!

Tis Pleasant Purchasing Our Fellow-creatures; And All Are To Be Sold, If You Consider Their Passions, And Are Dext'rous; Some By Features Are Brought Up, Others By A Warlike Leader; Some By A Place--as Tend Their Years Or Natures; The Most By Ready Cash--but All Have Prices, From Crowns To Kicks, According To Their Vices.

The Very Best Of Vineyards Is The Cellar

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Let Joy Be Unconfined.

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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.

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A Thousand Years May Scare Form A State. An Hour May Lay It In Ruins.

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The Dew Of Compassion Is A Tear.

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Who Then Will Explain The Explanation?

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Positive Atheism

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

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

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.

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

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Think Not I Am What I Appear.

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

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!

Sweet Is Revenge-especially To Women.

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Italia! O Italia! Thou Who Hast The Fatal Gift Of Beauty.

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Optical Illusions

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.

None Are So Desolate But Something Dear, Dearer Than Self, Possesses Or Possess'd A Thought, And Claims The Homage Of A Tear.

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

Such Is Your Cold Coquette, Who Can't Say "no," And Won't Say "yes," And Keeps You On And Off-ing On A Lee-shore, Till It Begins To Blow, Then Sees Your Heart Wreck'd, With An Inward Scoffing.

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.

Of All Tales 'tis The Saddest--and More Sad, Because It Makes Us Smile.

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.

The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

No More We Meet In Yonder Bowers Absence Has Made Me Prone To Roving; But Older, Firmer Hearts Than Ours, Have Found Monotony In Loving.

It Is Not One Man Nor A Million, But The Spirit Of Liberty That Must Be Preserved. The Waves Which Dash Upon The Shore Are, One By One, Broken, But The Ocean Conquers Nevertheless. It Overwhelms The Armada, It Wears Out The Rock. In Like Manner, Whatever The Struggle Of Individuals, The Great Cause Will Gather Strength.

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

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

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!

Always Laugh When You Can; It Is Cheap Medicine. Merriment Is A Philosophy Not Well Understood. It Is The Sunny Side Of Existence.

For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction.

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

Oh! Might I Kiss Those Eyes Of Fire, A Million Scarce Would Quench Desire; Still Would I Steep My Lips In Bliss, And Dwell An Age On Every Kiss; Nor Then My Soul Should Sated Be, Still Would I Kiss And Cling To Thee: Nought Should My Kiss From Thine Dissever, Still Would We Kiss And Kiss For Ever; E'en Though The Numbers Did Exceed The Yellow Harvest's Countless Seed; To Part Would Be A Vain Endeavour: Could I Desist? -ah! Never-never.

But First, On Earth As Vampire Sent, Thy Corse Shall From Its Tomb Be Rent, Then Ghastly Haunt Thy Native Place, And Suck The Blood Of All Thy Race. There From Thy Daughter, Sister, Wife, At Midnight Drain The Stream Of Life, Yet Loathe The Banquet Which Perforce Must Feed Thy Livid Living Corse. Thy Victims Ere They Yet Expire Shall Know The Demon For Their Sire, As Cursing Thee, Thou Cursing Them, Thy Flowers Are Withered On The Stem.

In The Desert A Fountain Is Springing, In The Wide Waste There Still Is A Tree, And A Bird In The Solitude Singing, Which Speaks To My Spirit Of Thee

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

A Woman Who Gives Any Advantage To A Man May Expect A Lover - But Will Sooner Or Later Find A Tyrant.

Heaven Gives Its Favourites-early Death.

Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away.

Now What I Love In Women Is, They Won't Or Can't Do Otherwise Than Lie, But Do It. So Well, The Very Truth Seems Falsehood To It.

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

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

In Solitude, When We Are Least Alone.

Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent For Slumber!

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.

How Sweet And Soothing Is This Hour Of Calm! I Thank Thee, Night! For Thou Has Chased Away These Horrid Bodements Which, Amidst The Throng, I Could Not Dissipate; And With The Blessing Of Thy Benign And Quiet Influence Now Will I To My Couch, Although To Rest Is Almost Wronging Such A Night As This.

The Heart Will Break, But Broken Live On.

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

Sleep Hath Its Own World, And The Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

But Stories Somehow Lengthen When Begun.

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

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.

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 .

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!

Now I Shall Go To Sleep. Goodnight.

No Words Suffice The Secret Soul To Show, For Truth Denies All Eloquence To Woe.

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

The Heart Ran O'er With Silent Worship Of The Great Of Old!-- The Dead, But Sceptred Sovereigns, Who Still Rule Our Spirits From Their Urns.

A Change Came O'er The Spirit Of My Dream.

Like The Measles, Love Is Most Dangerous When It Comes Late In Life.

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

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Perhaps The Early Grave Which Men Weep Over May Be Meant To Save.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

There's Not A Sea The Passenger E'er Pukes In, Turns Up More Dangerous Breakers Than The Euxine.

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.

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.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar?

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A Feast Not Profuse But Elegant; More Of Salt [refinement] Than Of Expense.

And I Would Hear Yet Once Before I Perish The Voice Which Was My Music... Speak To Me!

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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.

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.

Bread Has Been Made (indifferent) From Potatoes; And Galvanism Has Set Some Corpses Grinning, But Has Not Answer'd Like The Apparatus Of The Humane Society's Beginning, By Which Men Are Unsuffocated Gratis: What Wondrous New Machines Have Late Been Spinning.

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.

There Is Something Pagan In Me That I Cannot Shake Off. In Short, I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

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.

Knowledge Is Not Happiness, And Science But An Exchange Of Ignorance For That Which Is Another Kind Of Ignorance.

It Is By Far The Most Elegant Worship, Hardly Excepting The Greek Mythology. What With Incense, Pictures, Statues, Altars, Shrines, Relics, And The Real Presence, Confession, Absolution, - There Is Something Sensible To Grasp At. Besides, It Leaves No Possibility Of Doubt; For Those Who Swallow Their Deity, Really And Truly, In Transubstantiation, Can Hardly Find Any Thing Else Otherwise Than Easy Of Digestion.

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

Critics Are Already Made.

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!

I Stood Among Them, But Not Of Them: In A Shroud Of Thoughts Which Were Not Their Thoughts.

Like Other Parties Of The Kind, It Was First Silent, Then Talky, Then Argumentative, Then Disputatious, Then Unintelligible, Then Altogether, Then Inarticulate, And Then Drunk. When We Had Reached The Last Step Of This Glorious Ladder, It Was Difficult To Get Down Again Without Stumbling.

In Itself A Thought, A Slumbering Thought Is Capable Of Years; And Curdles A Long Life Into One Hour.

But I Had Not Quite Fixed Whether To Make Him [don Juan] End In Hell-or In An Unhappy Marriage,-not Knowing Which Would Be The Severest.

'tis Solitude Should Teach Us How To Die; It Hath No Flatterers; Vanity Can Give, No Hollow Aid; Alone - Man With God Must Strive.

It Is Odd But Agitation Or Contest Of Any Kind Gives A Rebound To My Spirits And Sets Me Up For A Time.

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

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

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.

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

So For A Good Old-gentlemanly Vice, I Think I Must Take Up With Avarice.

This Is To Be Along; This, This Is Solitude!

America Is A Model Of Force And Freedom And Moderation - With All The Coarseness And Rudeness Of Its People.

What Want These Outlaws Conquerors Should Have But History's Purchased Page To Call Them Great?

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.

It Is Very Iniquitous To Make Me Pay My Debts - You Have No Idea Of The Pain It Gives One.

History, With All Her Volumes Vast, Hath But One Page.

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

Oh, Christ! It Is A Goodly Sight To See What Heaven Hath Done For This Delicious Land!

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