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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.

-Lord Byron

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What Is The End

Lord Byron

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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.

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I Only Go Out To Get Me A Fresh Appetite For Being Alone.

Appetite For Life

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.

As Falls The Dew On Quenchless Sands, Blood Only Serves To Wash Ambition's Hands.

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.

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

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.

A Small Drop Of Ink Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions... Think.

You Should Have A Softer Pillow Than My Heart.

Never To Talk To Ones Self Is A Form Of Hypocrisy

Be Hypocritical, Be Cautious, Be Not What You Seem But Always What You See.

Our Life Is Two Fold Sleep Hath Its Own World, A Boundary Between The Things Misnamed Death And Existence Sleep Hath Its Own World, And A Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

'twas Strange That One So Young Should Thus Concern His Brain About The Action Of The Sky; If You Think 'twas Philosophy That This Did, I Can't Help Thinking Puberty Assisted.

Think'st Thou Existence Doth Depend On Time? It Doth; But Actions Are Our Epochs.

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.

Champagne With Its Foaming Whirls/as White As Cleopatra's Pearls.

The Simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, Both By Precept And Example, Shows / That Prose Is Verse, And Verse Is Merely Prose.

In Hope To Merit Heaven By Making Earth A Hell.

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

Life Is Too Short For Chess.

Life Is Too Short

Life It Too Short

Fills The Air Around With Beauty.

And Life 's Enchanted Cup But Sparkles Near The Brim.

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

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

Better To Sink Beneath The Shock Than Moulder Piecemeal On The Rock!

Men Love In Haste, But They Detest At Leisure.

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

What Is Death, So It Be But Glorious? 'tis A Sunset; And Mortals May Be Happy To Resemble The Gods But In Decay.

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

I Love The Language, It Sounds As If It Should Be Writ On Satin With Syllables Which Breathe Of The Sweet South

Damn Description, It Is Always Disgusting.

Dead Scandals Form Good Subjects For Dissection.

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

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.

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?

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

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

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

I Speak Not Of Men's Creeds—they Rest Between Man And His Maker.

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.

Yet He Was Jealous, Though He Did Not Show It, For Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

Near This Spot Are Deposited The Remains Of One Who Possessed Beauty Without Vanity, Strength Without Insolence, Courage Without Ferocity, And All The Virtues Of Man, Without His Vices. This Praise, Which Would Be Unmeaning Flattery If Inscribed Over Human Ashes, Is But A Just Tribute To The Memory Of Botswain, A Dog.

Absence - That Common Cure Of Love.

A Schoolboy's Tale, The Wonder Of An Hour!

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.

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me; I Have Not Flattered Its Rank Breath, Nor Bowed To Its Idolatries A Patient Knee, Nor Coined My Cheek To Smiles,-nor Cried Aloud In Worship Of An Echo.

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

The Thorns Which I Have Reap'd Are Of The Tree I Planted; They Have Torn Me, And I Bleed. I Should Have Known What Fruit Would Spring From Such A Seed.

I Am Always Most Religious Upon A Sunshiny Day.

Ada! Sole Daughter Of My House And Heart.

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

[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.

Retirement Accords With The Tone Of My Mind; I Will Not Descend To A World I Despise.

Know Ye The Land Where The Cypress And Myrtle Are Emblems Of Deeds That Are Done In Their Clime? Where The Rage Of The Vulture, The Love Of The Turtle, Now Melt Into Sorrow, Now Madden To Crime!

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 .

A Sleep Without Dreams, After A Rough Day Of Toil, Is What We Covet Most; And Yet How Clay Shrinks Back From More Quiescent Clay! The Very Suicide That Pays His Debt At Once Without Installments (an Old Way Of Paying Debts, Which Creditors Regret) Lets Out Impatiently His Rushing Breath, Less From Disgust Of Life Than Dread Of Death.

When Falls The Coliseum, Rome Shall Fall; And When Rome Falls--the World.

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.

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.

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

Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

Opinions Are Made To Be Changed Or How Is Truth To Be Got At?

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

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

I Do Not Believe In Any Religion, I Will Have Nothing To Do With Immortality. We Are Miserable Enough In This Life Without Speculating Upon Another.

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

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

Positive Atheism

My Native Land, Good Night!

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

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!

A Sort Of Hostile Transaction, Very Necessary To Keep The World Going, But By No Means A Sinecure To The Parties Concerned.

The French Courage Proceeds From Vanity

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.

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.

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

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.

I Am Ashes Where Once I Was Fire.

You Have To Have A Passion For Your Work. How Can We Expect People To Be Passionate If You, As Their Coach, Does Not Have A Passion? Coaching Has To Be Something That Gives You Passion And Energy.

Think Not I Am What I Appear.

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.

Marriage, From Love, Like Vinegar From Wine-- A Sad, Sour Sober Beverage--by Time Is Sharpened From Its High Celestial Flavor Down To A Very Homely Household Savor.

Mont Blanc Is The Monarch Of Mountains; They Crown'd Him Long Ago On A Throne Of Rocks, In A Robe Of Clouds, With A Diadem Of Snow.

There Is Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears.

Many Are Poets, But Without The Name;for What Is Poesy But To Createfrom Overfeeling Good Or Ill; And Aimat An External Life Beyond Our Fate,and Be The New Prometheus Of New Men,bestowing Fire From Heaven, And Then, Too Late,finding The Pleasure Given Repaid With Pain

Parting Day Dies Like The Dolphin, Whom Each Pang Imbues With A New Colour As It Gasps Away, The Last Still Loveliest, Till-'t Is Gone, And All Is Gray.

The Cardinal Is At His Wit's End - It Is True That He Had Not Far To Go.

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

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

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.

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.

If I Could Always Read, I Should Never Feel The Want Of Company.

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

Heaven Gives Its Favourites-early Death.

The Waves Were Dead; The Tides Were In Their Grave, The Moon, Their Mistress, Had Expir'd Before; The Winds Were Wither'd In The Stagnant Air, And The Clouds Perish'd; Darkness Had No Need Of Aid From Them-she Was The Universe.

My Hair Is Grey, But Not With Years, Nor Grew It White In A Single Night, As Men's Have Grown From Sudden Fears.

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.

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

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.

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.

Tis Sweet To Listen As The Night Winds Creep From Leaf To Leaf.

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

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

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

My Altars Are The Mountains And The Ocean.

...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.

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

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.

I Am Not Now That Which I Have Been.

What Should I Have Known Or Written Had I Been A Quiet, Mercantile Politician Or A Lord In Waiting? A Man Must Travel, And Turmoil, Or There Is No Existence.

My Great Comfort Is, That The Temporary Celebrity I Have Wrung From The World Has Been In The Very Teeth Of All Opinions And Prejudices. I Have Flattered No Ruling Powers; I Have Never Concealed A Single Thought That Tempted Me.

I Depart, Whither I Know Not; But The Hour's Gone By When Albion's Lessening Shores Could Grieve Or Glad Mine Eye.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar? The Hearts Bleed Longest, And Heals But To Wear That Which Disfigures It.

Wounds And Scars

I Think The Worst Woman That Ever Existed Would Have Made A Man Of Very Passable Reputation -- They Are All Better Than Us And Their Faults Such As They Are Must Originate With Ourselves.

All Who Joy Would Win Must Share It. Happiness Was Born A Twin.

A Good Coach Encourages The Same Type Of Resilience In The People They Work With. They Encourage Them To Take Risks. If The Risk Results In Failure, They Help All People To Learn From The Mistake And Then Go On To Try Another Way.

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.

Prolonged Endurance Tames The Bold.

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.

In England The Only Homage Which They Pay To Virtue - Is Hypocrisy.

Tyranny Is Far The Worst Of Treasons. Dost Thou Deem None Rebels Except Subjects? The Prince Who Neglects Or Violates His Trust Is More A Brigand Than The Robber-chief.

If Ancient Tales Say True, Nor Wrong These Holy Men.

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

I Would Rather Have A Nod From An American, Than A Snuff- Box From An Emperor.

I Am Never Long, Even In The Society Of Her I Love, Without Yearning For The Company Of My Lamp And My Library.

This Sort Of Adoration Of The Real Is But A Heightening Of The Beau Ideal.

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods.

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

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.

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.

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

In Solitude, When We Are Least Alone.

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

A Little Still She Strove, And Much Repented, And Whispering “i Will Ne'er Consent”—consented.

To What Gulfs A Single Deviation From The Track Of Human Duties Leads Even Those Who Claim The Homage Of Mankind As Their Born Due, And Find It, Till They Forfeit It Themselves!

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

Keep Thy Smooth Words And Juggling Homilies For Those Who Know Thee Not.

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

Sweet Is Revenge-especially To Women.

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.

Exhausting Thought, And Hiving Wisdom With Each Studious Year.

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.

So Much Alarmed That She Is Quite Alarming

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

Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.

Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent For Slumber!

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.

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.

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

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

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.

It Is Useless To Tell One Not To Reason But To Believe; You Might As Well Tell A Man Not To Wake But Sleep.

It Is True From Early Habit, One Must Make Love Mechanically As One Swims; I Was Once Very Fond Of Both, But Now As I Never Swim Unless I Tumble Into The Water, I Don't Make Love Till Almost Obliged.

I Awoke One Morning And Found Myself Famous.

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.

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.

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse Borne Away With Every Breath! Misplaced Upon The Throne Misplaced In Life. I Know Not What I Could Have Been, But Feel I Am Not What I Should Be Let It End.

I Cannot Help Thinking That The Menace Of Hell Makes As Many Devils As The Severe Penal Codes Of Inhuman Humanity Make Villains.

For Through The South The Custom Still Commands The Gentleman To Kiss The Lady's Hands.

Whenever I Meet With Anything Agreeable In This World It Surprises Me So Much - And Pleases Me So Much (when My Passions Are Not Interested In One Way Or The Other) That I Go On Wondering For A Week To Come.

Whatsoever Thy Birth, Thou Wert A Beautiful Thought, And Softly Bodied Forth.

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

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.

There Is No Traitor Like Him Whose Domestic Treason Plants The Poniard Within The Breast That Trusted To His Truth

But Quiet To Quick Bosoms Is A Hell.

To Chase The Glowing Hours With Flying Feet.

A Woman Should Never Be Seen Eating Or Drinking, Unless It Be Lobster Salad And Champagne, The Only True Feminine And Becoming Viands.

And Doubt And Discord Step 'twixt Thine And Thee.

Friendship Is Love Without His Wings!

Still From The Fount Of Joy's Delicious Springs Some Bitter O'er The Flowers Its Bubbling Venom Flings.

Let Us Have Wine And Women, Mirth And Laughter, Sermons And Soda Water The Day After.

The Image Of Eternity--the Throne Of The Invisible; Even From Out Thy Slime The Monsters Of The Deep Are Made; Each Zone Obeys Thee; Thou Goest Forth, Dread, Fathomless, Alone.

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

Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

Society Is Now One Polished Horde, Formed Of Two Mighty Tries, The Bores And Bored.

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

Man Is Born Passionate Of Body, But With An Innate Though Secret Tendency To The Love Of Good In His Main-spring Of Mind. But God Help Us All! It Is At Present A Sad Jar Of Atoms.

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

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.

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

The Poor Dog, In Life The Firmest Friend. The First To Welcome, Foremost To Defend.

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me, But Let Us Part Fair Foes; I Do Believe, Though I Have Found Them Not, That There May Be Words Which Are Things, Hopes Which Will Not Deceive, And Virtues Which Are Merciful, Or Weave Snares For The Failing: I Would Also Deem O'er Others' Griefs That Some Sincerely Grieve; That Two, Or One, Are Almost What They Seem, That Goodness Is No Name, And Happiness No Dream.

The Very Best Of Vineyards Is The Cellar

Let Joy Be Unconfined.

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.

Sweet Is Old Wine In Bottles, Ale In Barrels.

Pure Friendship's Well-feigned Blush.

Dreading That Climax Of All Human Ills The Inflammation Of His Weekly Bills.

I've Seen Your Stormy Seas And Stormy Women, And Pity Lovers Rather More Than Seamen.

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

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.

Here Lies Interred In The Eternity Of The Past, From Whence There Is No Resurrection For The Days - Whatever There May Be For The Dust - The Thirty-third Year Of An Ill-spent Life, Which, After A Lingering Disease Of Many Months Sank Into A Lethargy, And Expired, January 22d, 1821, A.d. Leaving A Successor Inconsolable For The Very Loss Which Occasioned Its Existence.

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

But Words Are Things, And A Small Drop Of Ink, Falling Like Dew, Upon A Thought, Produces That Which Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions, Think.

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.

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

My Beautiful, My Own My Only Venice-this Is Breath! Thy Breeze Thine Adrian Sea-breeze, How It Fans My Face! Thy Very Winds Feel Native To My Veins, And Cool Them Into Calmness!

They Truly Mourn, That Mourn Without A Witness.

Kill A Man's Family, And He May Brook It, But Keep Your Hands Out Of His Breeches' Pocket.

The Poor Dog, In Life The Firmest Friend, The First To Welcome, Foremost To Defend, Whose Honest Heart Is Still The Master's Own, Who Labours, Fights, Lives, Breathes For Him Alone, Unhonour'd Falls, Unnoticed All His Worth, Denied In Heaven The Soul He Held On Earth, While Man, Vain Insect Hopes To Be Forgiven, And Claims Himself A Sole Exclusive Heaven.

Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates - But Pages Might Be Filled Up, As Vainly As Before, With The Sad Usage Of All Sorts Of Sages, Who In His Life-time, Each Was Deemed A Bore! The Loftiest Minds Outrun Their Tardy Ages.

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

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