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A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.

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
Perhaps
Millions
Small
Makes
Think
Thinking
Ink
Drop
Thousands

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Socrates said, our only knowledge was To know that nothing could be known a pleasant Science enough, which levels to an ass Each Man of Wisdom, future, past, or present. Newton, (that Proverb of the Mind,) alas! Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, That he himself felt only like a youth Picking up shells by the great Ocean-Truth.
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What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!
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Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.
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Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
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The devil was the first democrat
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Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, For into a prime minister but change His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation.
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All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
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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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I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.
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He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.
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Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?
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But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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