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Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
Lord Byron
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Lord Byron
Age: 36 †
Born: 1788
Born: January 22
Died: 1824
Died: April 19
Autobiographer
Baron Byron
Diarist
Librettist
Lyricist
Military Personnel
Playwright
Poet
Politician
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Writer
London
England
George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron
Noel Byron
Xhorxh Bajroni
Bajron
George Gordon
Jerzy Gordon Byron
Pai-lun
Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Noel
Byron
George Gordon Byron
Baron Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Noël Byron Byron
Bayrěn
Payrěn
George Gordon By
Death
Makes
Weep
Thing
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Men
Third
Life
Thirds
Dying
Sleep
Called
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All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99
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I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels make air instead of sea voyages and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.
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Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
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I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law.
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I hate all pain, Given or received we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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Friendship is Love without his wings!
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And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
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Fills The air around with beauty.
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
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Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world.
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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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We of the craft are all crazy.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
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