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But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.

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
Death
Foreign
Authorship
Every
Praise
Publisher
Court
Describes
Demand
Wondrous
Fool
Publishers
Journey
Demands
Days
Bright
Spawns
Sports
Sport
Spawn

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And then he danced,-all foreigners excel the serious Angels in the eloquence of pantomime-he danced, I say, right well, with emphasis, and a'so with good sense-a thing in footing indispensable: he danced without theatrical pretence, not like a ballet-master in the van of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.
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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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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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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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Who then will explain the explanation?
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We of the craft are all crazy.
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Tis strange,-but true for truth is always strange Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
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A pretty woman is a welcome guest.
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No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!
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Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
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Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
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Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?
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In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.
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The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made each zone Obeys thee thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
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I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day.
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If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
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Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
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Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
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