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George Byron Quotes

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The fact is that my wife if she had common sense would have more power over me than any other whatsoever, for my heart always alights upon the nearest perch.

The keenest pangs the wretched find are rapture to the dreary void, - the leafless desert of the mind - the waste of feelings unemployed.

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, with breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, and glowing into day.

The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.

The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods; there is a rapture on the lonely shore; there is society, where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar.

There is no future pang can deal that justice on the self-condemned, that he deals on his own soul.

There is no instinct like that of the heart.

There is no sterner moralist than pleasure.

There is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?

There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth.

There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

There is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar.

There should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric; pure invention is but the talent of a deceiver.

There was a laughing devil in his sneer, which raised emotions both of rage and fear; and where his frown of hatred darkly fell, hope withering fled, and mercy sighed farewell.

They never fail who die in a great cause.

Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, who chose thee for his shadow; thou chief star, centre of many stars, thou dost rise, and shine, and set in glory!

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form glasses itself in tempests: in all time, calm or convulsed - in breeze, or gale, or storm, icing the pole, or in the torrid clime dark-heaving; - boundless, endless, and sublime - the image of eternity - the throne of the invisible; even from out thy slime the monsters of the deep are made; each zone obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

Time! the corrector where our judgments err; the test of truth, and love; the sole philosopher, for all beside are sophists.

To feel for none is the true social art of the world's stoics - men without a heart.

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