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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
Days
Bright
Spawns
Sports
Sport
Spawn
Death
Foreign
Authorship
Every
Praise
Publisher
Court
Describes
Demand
Wondrous
Fool
Publishers
Journey
Demands
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'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
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Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!
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I learned to love despair.
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And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
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This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
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Champagne with its foaming whirls/As white as Cleopatra's pearls.
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For truth is always strange stranger than fiction.
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Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.
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If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.
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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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And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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We of the craft are all crazy.
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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
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One certainly has a soul but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.
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I only know we loved in vain I only feel-farewell! farewell!
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He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
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[Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.
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Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.
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