Zitate von Lord George Gordon Byron
Ein bekanntes Zitat von Lord George Gordon Byron:
Die Fleißigen haben keine Zeit für Träume.
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, 2 Monate, 28 Tage oder 86.285 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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Oh! too convincing-dangerously dear- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear!
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Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die.
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On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.
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Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.
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One of the pleasures of reading old letters is the knowledge that they need no answer.
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Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women.
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Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.
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Polygamy may well be held in dread, / Not only as a sin but as a bore.
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Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curled, That nose, the hook where he suspends the world!
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Quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.
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Ready money is Aladdin's lamp.
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Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore.
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Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer.
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Satan met his ancient friend With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian.
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She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
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Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.
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Sleep hath its own world, / And a wide realm of wild reality.
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Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun; Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light.
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Smiles form the channel of a future tear.
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So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.