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I know that two and two make four - and should be glad to prove it too if I could - though I must say if by any sort of process I could convert 2 and 2 into five it would give me much greater pleasure.

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
Would
Though
Glad
Process
Mathematics
Converting
Two
Prove
Gladness
Give
Sort
Convert
Must
Pleasure
Probability
Giving
Four
Mathematical
Much
Greater
Math
Make
Five
Logic

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I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.
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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
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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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A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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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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Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
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My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.
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The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.
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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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I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.
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Then farewell, Horace whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
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Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
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Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
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A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.
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If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
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And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.
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My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
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