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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.
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
Painting
Eighty
Probably
Aging
Literature
Dress
Age
Schools
Three
Architecture
Two
Dresses
School
Hundred
Men
Poetry
Outlived
More quotes by Lord Byron
Why I came here, I know not where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?
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Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
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Tis strange,-but true for truth is always strange Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
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With flowing tail and flying mane, Wide nostrils never stretched by pain, Mouth bloodless to bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscar'd by spur or rod, A thousand horses - the wild - the free - Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
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Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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I depart, Whither I know not but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
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Life is too short for chess.
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Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
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Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.
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The great object of life is Sensation - to feel that we exist - even though in pain - it is this craving void which drives us to gaming - to battle - to travel - to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment.
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The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
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Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.
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So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.
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For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
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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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We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
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Retirement accords with the tone of my mind I will not descend to a world I despise.
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This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
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