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Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.
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
Blushing
Blush
Friendship
Pure
Wells
Well
Feigned
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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.
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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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Absence - that common cure of love.
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A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
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I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.
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The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
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The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains--beautiful! I linger yet with nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man, and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness I learned the language of another world.
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The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.
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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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It is not one man nor a million, but the spirit of liberty that must be preserved. The waves which dash upon the shore are, one by one, broken, but the ocean conquers nevertheless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears out the rock. In like manner, whatever the struggle of individuals, the great cause will gather strength.
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Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
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When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past - For years fleet away with the wings of the dove - The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
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Many are poets, but without the nameFor what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain
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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth whilst on the surface of the world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom.
Lord Byron
Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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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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