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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.
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
Fall
Breeze
Like
House
Affairs
Another
Round
Firsts
Rounds
Come
Affair
First
Leaves
Take
Coffee
Way
Friends
Grumble
More quotes by Lord Byron
Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
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But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth: Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
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The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game.
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There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.
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Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know 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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The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
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The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
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I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
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There is music in all things, if men had ears.
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And hold up to the sun my little taper.
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For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.
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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
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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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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
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I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end.
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To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
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And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
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This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
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It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
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