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What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.

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
Nothing
Idols
People
Fame
Advantage
Literature
Known
Care
Littles
Little

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Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.
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I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.
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What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.
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Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
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Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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Few things surpass old wine and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain
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None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
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Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others.
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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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Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.
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The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses that pull, Each tugs in a different way And the greatest of all is John Bull!
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I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.
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Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
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It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.
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But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.
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