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The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.
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
Bright
Sun
Eternal
Stars
Space
Extinguish
Cosmology
Wander
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Then farewell, Horace whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
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Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another.
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The poetry of speech.
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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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Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
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I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.
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Man is born passionate of body, but with an innate though secret tendency to the love of Good in his main-spring of Mind. But God help us all! It is at present a sad jar of atoms.
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Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
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Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.
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He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.
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Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel
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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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The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made each zone Obeys thee thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
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The fact is that my wife if she had common sense would have more power over me than any other whatsoever, for my heart always alights upon the nearest perch.
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Life is too short for chess.
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Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
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Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Botswain, a dog.
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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
Lord Byron