Works of Lord Byron: With His Letters and Journals, and His Life, Volume 16

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Page 137 - Not where he eats, but where he is eaten : a certain convocation of politic worms are e'en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet : we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots...
Page 6 - And if I laugh at any mortal thing, Tis that I may not weep...
Page 16 - We are somewhat more than ourselves in our sleeps ; and the slumber of the body seems to be but the waking of the soul. It is the ligation of sense, but the liberty of reason ; and our waking conceptions do not match the fancies of our sleeps.
Page 124 - To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.
Page 69 - Seen him I have, but in his happier hour Of social pleasure, ill exchanged for power ; Seen him, uneumber'd with the venal tribe, Smile without art, and win without a bribe.
Page 227 - Why, so can I ; or so can any man : But will they come, when you do call for them ? Glend.
Page 135 - We left our hero and third heroine in A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman : Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.
Page 136 - That never set a squadron in the field, Nor the division of a battle knows More than a spinster...
Page 309 - Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland, one and all, Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams, The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall, All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, Like Banquo's offspring: — floating past me seems My childhood, in this childishness of mine: I care not — 'tis a glimpse of "Auld Lang Syne.
Page 7 - Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage. Far off from these a slow and silent stream, Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks, Forthwith his former state and being forgets, Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.

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