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I should be very willing to redress men wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, had not Cervantes, in that all too true tale of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.
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
Willing
Check
Cervantes
Effort
Efforts
Quixote
Literature
Checks
Redress
Rather
Tales
Wrongs
True
Punishment
Punish
Men
Fail
Tale
Failing
Crimes
Crime
Shown
More quotes by Lord Byron
Yes, love indeed is light from heaven A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to lift from earth our low desire.
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Who then will explain the explanation?
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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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Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
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Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.
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This is the patent-age of new inventions For killing bodies, and for saving souls, All propagated with the best intentions Sir Humphrey Davy's lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.
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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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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
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Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
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So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.
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Such is your cold coquette, who can't say No, And won't say Yes, and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.
Lord Byron
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.
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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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I have no consistency, except in politics and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
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She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
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He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
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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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Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger opens a new world When this, the present, palls.
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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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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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