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Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!
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
Make
Breast
Grants
Breasts
Thermopylae
Hundred
Spartan
Dead
Remnant
Three
Remnants
Earth
Render
Back
Grant
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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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And then he danced,-all foreigners excel the serious Angels in the eloquence of pantomime-he danced, I say, right well, with emphasis, and a'so with good sense-a thing in footing indispensable: he danced without theatrical pretence, not like a ballet-master in the van of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.
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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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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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Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
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It is not one man nor a million, but the spirit of liberty that must be preserved. The waves which dash upon the shore are, one by one, broken, but the ocean conquers nevertheless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears out the rock. In like manner, whatever the struggle of individuals, the great cause will gather strength.
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To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.
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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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Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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I have no consistency, except in politics and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
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Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.
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Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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The heart will break, but broken live on.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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The very best of vineyards is the cellar
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