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| Lord Byron
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't. A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress. A mistress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you are lovers; and when it is over, anything but friends. A pretty woman is a welcome guest. A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins. A wise man more than laughter from a dunce. All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin. All who would win joy, must share it; happiness was born a twin. And yet a little tumult, now and then, is an agreeable quickener of sensation; such as a revolution, a battle, or an adventure of any lively description. Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. 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. But words are things, and a small drop of ink,Falling like dew, upon a thought, producesThat which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think. Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep. For in itself a thought, a slumbering thought, is capable of years, and curdles a long life into one hour. For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear. Friendship is Love, without his wings.I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness. I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day. I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned. 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. I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone. I swims in the Tagus all across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears Portuguese, and have got a diarrhea and bites from the mosquitoes. But what of that? Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a pleasuring. I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff-box from an emperor. 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. In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, and to his very valet seemed a hero. It is odd but agitation or contest of any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me up for a time. It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe -you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep. 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. 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. Oh! there is an organ playing in the street - a waltz too! I must leave off to listen.One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll have a bit of a tussle before I let it get in again to that of any other. Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people. Pleasure's a sin and sometimes sin is a pleasure. Posterity will never survey a nobler grave than this: here lie the bones of Castlereagh: stop, traveler, and piss. Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world. The Angels were all singing out of tune, and hoarse with having little else to do, excepting to wind up the sun and moon or curb a runaway young star or two. The dew of compassion is a tear. The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice. There comes forever something between us and what we deem our happiness. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roarI love not Man the less, but Nature more. They never fail who die in a great cause. This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal. To have joy one must share it. Happiness was born a twin. To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all. War's a brain spattering windpipe splitting art. We are all selfish and I no more trust myself than others with a good motive. 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. |
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