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I only know we loved in vain I only feel-farewell! farewell!
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
Loved
Feel
Feels
Love
Farewell
Vain
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This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
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If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver.
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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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Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
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If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
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Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
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I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one.
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Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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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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Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
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The law of heaven and earth is life for life.
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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
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Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.
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Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear-- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue--at once her spear and shield.
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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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My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.
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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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A pretty woman is a welcome guest.
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Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.
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