Lord Byron

Lord Byron

George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron (22 January 1788 – 19 April 1824), commonly known simply as Lord Byron, was a British poet, peer, politician, and a leading figure in the Romantic movement. Among his best-known works are the lengthy narrative poems, Don Juan and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, and the short lyric poem, "She Walks in Beauty".

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All I saw farther in the last confusion, Was that King George slipped into heaven for one, And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, I left him practising the hundredth psalm.

When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation) sleep eating and swilling buttoning and unbuttoning - how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse.

Yet, he was jealous though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

The arena swims around him - he is gone / Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

The way to be immortal (I mean not to die at all) is to have me for your heir. I recommend you to put me in your will and you will see that (as long as I live at least) you will never even catch cold.

The world is a bundle of hay / Mankind are the asses who pull, / Each tugs it a different way / And the greatest of all is John Bull.

Lovers may be -- and indeed generally are -- enemies but they never can be friends because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.

I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.

Why did she love him? Curious fool - be still - is human love the growth of human will?

A finished gentleman from top to toe.

I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.

Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave, Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave!

Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear

The very best of vineyards is the cellar

And wrinkles (the damned democrats) won't flatter

Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life -- and if Virtue is not its own reward I don't know any other stipend annexed to it.

It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe /you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.

As falls the dew on quenchless sands blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.

That all-softening overpowering knell / The tocsin of the soul - the dinner-bell.

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine / And all save the spirit of man is divine.

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