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But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.
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
Evil
Draw
Find
Accounts
Much
Debt
Years
Draws
Gnaws
Conscience
Debts
Devil
Sixteen
Balance
Sixty
Call
Rarely
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And hold up to the sun my little taper.
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By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.
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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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It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
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I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.
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In solitude, when we are least alone.
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The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.
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There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.
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Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
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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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Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
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Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.
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Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.
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