Lord Byron on Hope
1788–1824 England
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4 quotes
Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed farewell!
The Corsair (1814)
Farewell!
For in that word, that fatal word,—howe'er
We promise, hope, believe,—there breathes despair.
The Corsair (1814)
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.
As soon
Seek roses in December, ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore.
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers (1809)