But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy course 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 course. 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.

— George Gordon Byron

But pomp and power alone are woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a fear;Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.

— George Gordon Byron

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

— George Gordon Byron

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

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.

— George Gordon Byron

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

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

— George Gordon Byron

Despair and Genius are too oft connected

— George Gordon Byron

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

— George Gordon Byron

Friendship is love without wings.

— George Gordon Byron