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Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
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
Sigh
Loved
Though
Many
Love
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This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
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The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
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Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world.
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Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, But has not answer'd like the apparatus Of the Humane Society's beginning, By which men are unsuffocated gratis: What wondrous new machines have late been spinning.
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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It is true from early habit, one must make love mechanically as one swims I was once very fond of both, but now as I never swim unless I tumble into the water, I don't make love till almost obliged.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.
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One certainly has a soul but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.
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He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
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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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O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
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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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Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
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Damn description, it is always disgusting.
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Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
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In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years and curdles a long life into one hour.
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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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