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I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.
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
Parsons
Infested
Methodists
Mania
Surrounded
Atheism
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Fills The air around with beauty.
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I hate all pain, Given or received we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.
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I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.
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Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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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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Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger opens a new world When this, the present, palls.
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What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!
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Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
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The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
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He who is only just is cruel who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly?
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What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.
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For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
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Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
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Eternity forbids thee to forget.
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The very best of vineyards is the cellar
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My native land, good night!
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Lord of himself that heritage of woe!
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