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  Proverb Zone > Author > Lord Byron

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But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; and the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

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