Lord George Gordon Byron

'Let there be light!' said God, and there was light!' 'Let there be blood!' says man, and there's a sea!

'Tis done-but yesterday a King! And armed with Kings to strive- And now thou art a nameless thing: So abject-yet alive!

'Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign Of human frailty, folly, also crime, That love and marriage rarely can combine, Although they both are born in the same clime; Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine- A sad, sour, sober beverage-by time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavour, Down to a very homely household savour.

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuffed out by an article.

'Tis strange-but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction.

'Tis wonderful what fable will not do! 'Tis said it makes reality more bearable: But what's reality? Who has its clue? Philosophy? No; she too much rejects. Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?

'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern His brain about the action of the sky; If you think 'twas philosophy that this did, I can't help thinking puberty assisted.

'Whom the gods love die young' was said of yore. And many deaths do they escape by this.

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

A drowsy frowzy poem, called the 'Excursion', writ' in a manner which is my aversion.

A lady of a 'certain age', which means Certainly aged.

A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist.

A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering 'I will ne'er consent'-consented.

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.

A man must serve his time to every trade Save censure-critics all are ready made. Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote.

A panoramic view of hell's in training, After the style of Virgil and of Homer, So that my name of Epic's no misnomer.

A pretty woman as was ever seen, Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door.

A quiet conscience makes one so serene.

A ruin-yet what ruin! from its mass Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared.

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; an hour my lay it in the dust.

Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue.

Adversity is the first path to truth.

Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert.

Alas! the love of women! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing!

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