Zitate von Lord George Gordon Byron
Ein bekanntes Zitat von Lord George Gordon Byron:
Die Demokratie ist eine Aristokratie von Schurken.
Informationen über Lord George Gordon Byron
Poet, "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage", "Cain", "Lara", galt außerhalb Englands als "schillernde Persönlichkeit" mit großem Einfluß (England, 1788 - 1824).
Lord George Gordon Byron · Geburtsdatum · Sterbedatum
Lord George Gordon Byron wäre heute 236 Jahre, 3 Monate, 1 Tag oder 86.289 Tage alt.
Geboren am 22.01.1788 in London
Gestorben am 19.04.1824 in Missolunghi
Sternzeichen: ♒ Wassermann
Unbekannt
Weitere 343 Zitate von Lord George Gordon Byron
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Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence.
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Married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.
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Merely innocent flirtation, Not quite adultery, but adulteration.
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Milton's the prince of poets-so we say; A little heavy, but no less divine.
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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!
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My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.
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My native land - Good Night!
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My Princess of Parallelograms.
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My way is to begin with the beginning.
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Near the spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of Man without his vices.
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None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possessed A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
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Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce.
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Now Barabbas was a publisher.
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Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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Now my sere fancy 'falls into the yellow Leaf,' and imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.
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Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, 'I told you so.'
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Of its own beauty is the mind diseased.
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Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul!
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Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
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Oh! that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her!