Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
Religion-freedom-vengeance-what you will, A word's enough to raise mankind to kill.
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?
My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.
When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter." And proved it--'t was no matter what he said.
My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone!
As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.
I only know we loved in vain; I only feel-farewell! farewell!
But I had not quite fixed whether to make him [Don Juan] end in Hell-or in an unhappy marriage,-not knowing which would be the severest.
Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe.
A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99
So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.
Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
He who is only just is cruel; who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly?
Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
And angling too, that solitary vice, What Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.
Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear-- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue--at once her spear and shield.
In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
So much alarmed that she is quite alarming
I loved my country, and I hated him.
Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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