Society is now one polished horde, Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and the Bored. Byron, Lord
The power of Thought, the magic of the Mind! Byron, Lord
The tenor’s voice is spoilt by affectation, And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; In fact, he had no singing education, An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow. Byron, Lord
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it. Byron, Lord
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. Byron, Lord
