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Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see.
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
Hell
Seems
Always
Hypocritical
Cautious
Hypocrisy
Seem
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The heart will break, but broken live on.
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Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
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Tis an old lesson time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost.
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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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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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Retirement accords with the tone of my mind I will not descend to a world I despise.
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And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
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It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
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Tyranny Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem None rebels except subjects? The prince who Neglects or violates his trust is more A brigand than the robber-chief.
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He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
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Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!
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A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.
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So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.
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There is music in all things, if men had ears.
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Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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I learned to love despair.
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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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I slept and dreamt that life was beauty I woke and found that life was duty.
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I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.
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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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