What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now. (Lord Byron)
The love where Death has set his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow: And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. (Lord Byron, "")
Of all the barbarous middle ages, that which is most barbarous is the middle age of man it is -- I really scarce know what but when we hover between fool and sage, and don't know justly what we would be at -- a period something like a printed page, black letter upon foolscap, while our hair grows grizzled, and we are not what we were. (Lord Byron)
I want a hero an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, The age discovers he is not the true one Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, I'll therefore take our ancient frien (Lord Byron)
It is a hard although a common case To find our children running restive- they In whom our brightest days we would retrace, Our little selves reform'd in finer clay, Just as old age is creeping on apace, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, Th (Lord Byron)