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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.

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
Ends
Thrones
Feel
Impulse
Feels
Breath
Every
Breaths
Life
Slave
Misplaced
Circumstances
Borne
Upon
Throne
Away
Circumstance

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The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
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I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England if false, England was unfit for me.
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Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader Some by a place--as tend their years or natures The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
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Books, Manuals, Directives, Regulations. The geometries that circumscribe your working life draw norrower and norrower until nothing fits inside them anymore.
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Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
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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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Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
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Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.
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May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
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Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.
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If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
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And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
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Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
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To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
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The waves were dead the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd Darkness had no need Of aid from them-She was the Universe.
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