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The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
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
Precept
Verse
Verses
Prose
Merely
Example
Simple
Shows
Wordsworth
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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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Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
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I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.
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Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Botswain, a dog.
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I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end.
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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They used to say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I know now they mean money.
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A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.
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Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
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Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.
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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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Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
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My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.
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Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
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Curiosity kills itself and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.
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Despair and Genius are too oft connected
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A drop of ink may make a million think.
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