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Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

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
May
Men
Weep
Grave
Graves
Meant
Save
Early
Perhaps

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We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
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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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Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.
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Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.
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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
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I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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The French courage proceeds from vanity
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Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
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Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
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Few things surpass old wine and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.
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He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.
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But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
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Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
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