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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
Atheism
Parsons
Infested
Methodists
Mania
Surrounded
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Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
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This is to be along this, this is solitude!
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It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
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Curiosity kills itself and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.
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It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness.
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I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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Friendship is Love without his wings!
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But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
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But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.
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Jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
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Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?
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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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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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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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