Lord Byron

It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts - you have no idea of the pain it gives one.

I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.

All farewells should be sudden, when forever.

What a strange thing man is; and what a stranger thing woman.

The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August

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.

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.

A drop of ink may make a million think.

Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?

I know that two and two make four - and should be glad to prove it too if I could - though I must say if by any sort of process I could convert 2 and 2 into five it would give me much greater pleasure.

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.

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.

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.

Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.

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.

Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.

Life's enchanted cup sparkles near the brim.

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.