Author of quotes: George Gordon Byron. Page 4

It is difficult to say what form of government worse, before all the bad. And the democratic - worst of all, for what is a democracy, not an aristocracy of scoundrels.

Heartfelt sorrow who was crying secretly.

You are a man, an accomplished a lot in life
Good and evil, not knowing them measures
And rock on the suffering of the doomed.

I would love you if you were hot, if you were cold but you are lukewarm...

What Angels shrink from: even the very Devil
On this occasion his own work abhorred
From hell hecatombs of dead bodies
The devil himself shuddered...

Terrestrial business filled nought in the sky
Save the Recording Angel's black bureau;
Who found indeed the facts to multiply
With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That he had stripped off both his wings in quills,
And yet was in arrear of human ills.
None of the things of the earth was not conducted,
Only the angel-chronicler of pain
Watched how quickly the troubles divorced
In the sublunary world: after all, the rachenie,
The feathers both wysipad wing
He was behind in the writing of evil.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
So little trouble had been given of late;
Not that the place by any means was full
The Apostle Peter was sitting at the gates of Paradise.
His keys rather rusty:
So many days and for many years
Asleep the Holy gatekeeper idleness.

It's fun in the woods without trails;
This is the rapture of a lonely shore;
A society where there is no accusations,
At deep blue shore music, I hear it roar:
I love man not less but nature more often.

We hate all the more joy we see,
We love in a hurry, but the longer hate.

All muddy kilosa shadow
It was not - neither night nor day.
It was darkness without darkness.
It was - abyss of the void
Without boundaries,
It was the images without faces,
What a terrible world, what was
Without the sky, lights and stars.

Night Shine stars and women.

If Laura had been Petrarch's wife, unless he could write sonnets all his life?

The memory of the experience happiness - not happiness, the memory of pain is still pain.

Let happiness failed to reach me -
You are the embodiment of purity,
And vulgar victim of zloyazykie,
Darling, you wouldn't be!