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He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
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
Carnage
Calls
Solitude
Military
Peace
Makes
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The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.
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What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.
Lord Byron
The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
Lord Byron
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
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If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
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Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.
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I cannot conceive why people will always mix up my own character and opinions with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have the right and liberty to draw.
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Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.
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The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.
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Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
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...And these vicissitudes come best in youth For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth: He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Has won experience which is deem'd so weighty.
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To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
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My native land, good night!
Lord Byron
Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore.
Lord Byron
Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
Lord Byron
I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law.
Lord Byron
Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore.
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Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice-- The weakness and the wickedness of luxury-- The negligence--the apathy--the evils Of sensual sloth--produces ten thousand tyrants, Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master, However harsh and hard in his own bearing.
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And the commencement of atonement is the sense of its necessity.
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