Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.
LORD BYRONThat music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.
More Lord Byron Quotes
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Who then will explain the explanation?
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If a man proves too clearly and convincingly to himself…that a tiger is an optical illusion–well, he will find out he is wrong.
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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Hearts will break – yet brokenly, live on.
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The poor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend.
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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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Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.
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I am not now That which I have been.
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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What an antithetical mind! – tenderness, roughness – delicacy, coarseness – sentiment, sensuality – soaring and groveling, dirt and deity – all mixed up in that one compound of inspired clay!
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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand;
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The great object of life is Sensation – to feel that we exist – even though in pain – it is this “craving void” which drives us to gaming – to battle – to travel – to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment.
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They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.
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Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.
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I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.
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The dew of compassion is a tear.
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Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.
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I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.
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I deny nothing, but doubt everything.
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I live, but live to die: and, living, see nothing to make death hateful, save an innate clinging, a loathsome and yet all invincible instinct of life, which I abhor, as I despise myself, yet cannot overcome – and so I live. Would I had never lived!
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To have joy, one must share it.
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You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
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In solitude, where we are least alone.
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The tiger will himself intervene in the discussion, in a manner which will be in every sense conclusive.
LORD BYRON