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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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
Broke
Greatness
Dies
Nature
Men
Sighing
Formed
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Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
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Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.
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Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.
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There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
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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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The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.
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Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
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Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
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A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
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Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
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Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
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Though the day of my Destiny 's over, And the star of my Fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find.
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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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I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels make air instead of sea voyages and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.
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I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness.
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Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
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The waves were dead the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd Darkness had no need Of aid from them-She was the Universe.
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Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
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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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Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.
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