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Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth but actions are our epochs.

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
Thinking
Depend
Thou
Actions
Depends
Existence
Action
Epochs
Time
Calendars
Think
Doth

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It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
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Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
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My native land, good night!
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A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.
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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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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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I learned to love despair.
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I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.
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Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
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Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.
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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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A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty
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Send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years .
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Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
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Above or Love, Hope, Hate or Fear, It lives all passionless and pure: An age shall fleet like earthly year Its years in moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing, O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die.
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But as to women, who can penetrate the real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate has much of selfishness and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, but form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.
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