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Shakespeare's name, you may depend on it, stands absurdly too high and will go down.
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
Literature
Absurdly
May
Shakespeare
Depend
Stands
Depends
Name
Names
High
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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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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?
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O ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain.
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I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.
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Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of thee alone can bind And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd-- To fetters and damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom.
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What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!
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For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
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To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.
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But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
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We of the craft are all crazy.
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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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The devil was the first democrat
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Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore.
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Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
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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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Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.
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