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The lapse of ages changes all things - time, language, the earth, the bounds of the sea, the stars of the sky, and every thing about, around, and underneath man, except man himself.

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
Men
Age
Underneath
Time
Language
Ages
Around
Bounds
Change
Sky
Earth
Sea
Thing
Changes
Every
Except
Lapse
Things
Stars
Lapses

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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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Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader Some by a place--as tend their years or natures The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
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Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
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In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years and curdles a long life into one hour.
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There is, in fact, no law or government at all and it is wonderful how well things go on without them.
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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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America is a model of force and freedom and moderation - with all the coarseness and rudeness of its people.
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Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
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What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.
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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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I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one.
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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There is music in all things, if men had ears.
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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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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.
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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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