The Poetical Works of Lord Byron, Volume 7

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Page 239 - Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations; — all were his! He counted them at break of day — And when the sun set where were they?
Page 16 - I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, Which melts like kisses from a female mouth. And sounds as if it should be writ on satin. With syllables which breathe of the sweet South. And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in. That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural. Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.
Page 158 - And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die.
Page 242 - But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think...
Page 69 - I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one. Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, The age discovers he is not the true one...
Page 146 - Well — well, the world must turn ; upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails. And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails...
Page 157 - At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, That still could keep afloat the struggling tars...
Page 70 - in medias res', (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road) And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, What went before — by way of episode, While seated after dinner at his ease, Beside his mistress in some soft abode, Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern, Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.
Page 117 - Man's love is of man's life a thing apart 'Tis woman's whole existence...
Page 195 - They are right ; for man, to man so oft unjust, Is always so to women ; one sole bond Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust Buys them in marriage — and what rests beyond ? A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over.

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