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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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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
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This is the patent-age of new inventions For killing bodies, and for saving souls, All propagated with the best intentions Sir Humphrey Davy's lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.
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Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see.
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My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
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Despair and Genius are too oft connected
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For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
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To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
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The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
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The lapse of ages changes all things - time, language, the earth, the bounds of the sea, the stars of the sky, and every thing about, around, and underneath man, except man himself.
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Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
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It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.
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Curiosity kills itself and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.
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Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
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Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.
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And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!
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Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life, and if Virtue is not its own reward, I don't know any other stipend annexed to it.
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The poetry of speech.
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Absence - that common cure of love.
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