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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
Stands
Depends
Name
Names
High
Literature
Absurdly
May
Shakespeare
Depend

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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
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There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
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Damn description, it is always disgusting.
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No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
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Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.
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She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
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They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.
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'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
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They used to say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I know now they mean money.
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Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore.
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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading about them, . . . that I think there should be a law amongst us to set our young men abroad for a term among the few allies our wars have left us.
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Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.
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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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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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Eternity forbids thee to forget.
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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
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