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Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
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
Better
Piecemeal
Sink
Beneath
Shock
Rock
Rocks
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Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night!
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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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All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99
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Yes, love indeed is light from heaven A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to lift from earth our low desire.
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For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
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If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.
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Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.
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The devil was the first democrat
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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Land of lost gods and godlike men.
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Retirement accords with the tone of my mind I will not descend to a world I despise.
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Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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Despair and Genius are too oft connected
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And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
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I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.
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Friendship is Love without his wings!
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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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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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We of the craft are all crazy.
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