English dramatist (1835-1884)
Life's too short for chess.
HENRY JAMES BYRON
Our Boys
The gardener's rule applies to youth and age: When young 'sow wild oats'; but when old, grow sage.
HENRY JAMES BYRON
The Pilgrim of Love!
My young friend, why to poetry aspire?
Don't court the muses, but adopt a trade,
For literature is sadly underpaid.
HENRY JAMES BYRON
Orpheus and Eurydice; or, the Young Gentleman who Charmed the Rocks
Love is compounded of pleasing palpitations.
HENRY JAMES BYRON
The Pilgrim of Love!
My temper's only like a summer storm. It's over in a minute.
HENRY JAMES BYRON
Orpheus and Eurydice; or, the Young Gentleman who Charmed the Rocks
No joys are there that can compare
With dancing, prancing everywhere;
I'd sooner wear, I do declare,
A dancer's wreath than crowns so rare.
HENRY JAMES BYRON
Esmeralda
What is the reason that, where'er I go,
A sad sensation--not exactly woe,
Though still sometimes approaching wretchedness,
A wish for something that I can't express,
A recklessness as to my future lot,
Existence wanting--wanting--don't know what,
Should weigh me down? When I Bonabben question,
He answers shortly that "it's indigestion.
HENRY JAMES BYRON
The Pilgrim of Love!
Take two from one you can't, that's very true;
But any person can take one from two.
HENRY JAMES BYRON
Ill-treated Il Trovatore: Or, The Mother, the Maiden, & the Musicianer
If you love me as I love you,
No knife can cut our loves in two.
HENRY JAMES BYRON
Ill-treated Il Trovatore: Or, The Mother, the Maiden, & the Musicianer
What makes the birds so happy when I'm sad? The irritating creatures!
HENRY JAMES BYRON
The Pilgrim of Love!
I'm not attractive; this, I'm quite aware,
Is not a prepossessing head of hair;
It's rough and reddy, like myself; and these
Are not the most symmetrical of knees.
HENRY JAMES BYRON
Esmeralda
She talks of love in a most ridiculous way.
I say, affection's a swindle altogether!
Married folk,
'Neath the yolk.
Tug hard at their tether.
Love that gallops, drops to hobbling--
Husbands their wive's incomes nobbling,
That which boil'd soon sinks to wobbling,
Ne'er again to heat.
Love no longer husbands blinding,
Extra freckles they keep finding;
Wrinkles most unkind in,
Winding
Crow's crowding feet.
HENRY JAMES BYRON
The Pilgrim of Love!