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Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore.

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
Translator
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
Blue
Ruins
Deep
Beach
Thousand
Roll
Fleets
Control
Vain
Sweep
Dark
Thee
Marks
Earth
Ten
Ruin
Men
Mark
Stops
Ocean
Shore

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This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
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What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.
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And then he danced,-all foreigners excel the serious Angels in the eloquence of pantomime-he danced, I say, right well, with emphasis, and a'so with good sense-a thing in footing indispensable: he danced without theatrical pretence, not like a ballet-master in the van of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.
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But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth: Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty
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I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.
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Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.
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Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
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The reason that adulation is not displeasing is that, though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to induce people to lie.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, For into a prime minister but change His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation.
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The French courage proceeds from vanity
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I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England if false, England was unfit for me.
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In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
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