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There is music in all things, if men had ears.
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
Men
Musical
Ears
Music
Things
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You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
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Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.
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Few things surpass old wine and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain
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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
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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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Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.
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Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel
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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.
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May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
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For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.
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Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
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I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.
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I hate all pain, Given or received we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.
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We of the craft are all crazy.
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Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.
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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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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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