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Were I Diogenes, I would not move out of a kilderkin into a hogshead, though the first had had nothing but small beer in it, and the second reeked claret.

Charles Lamb

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Charles Lamb
Age: 59 †
Born: 1775
Born: February 10
Died: 1834
Died: December 27
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Writer
London
England
Small
Though
Moving
Home
Diogenes
Firsts
Claret
Nothing
Beer
First
Second
Would
Move

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Literature is a bad crutch, but a good walking-stick.
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The going away of friends does not make the remainder more precious. It takes so much from them as there was a common link. A. B. and C. make a party. A. dies. B. not only loses A. but all A.'s part in C. C. loses A.'s part in B., and so the alphabet sickens by subtraction of interchangeables.
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I know that a sweet child is the sweetest thing in nature, not even excepting the delicate creatures which bear them.
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No one ever regarded the first of January with indifference.
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My only books Were woman's looks,- And folly 's all they 've taught me.
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You do not play then at whist, sir? Alas, what a sad old age you are preparing for yourself!
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When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love.
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Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
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Oh stay! oh stay! Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh 't is pain To break its links so soon.
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Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see another mountain in my life.
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Man is a gaming animal. He must always be trying to get the better in something or other.
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There is a pleasure in affecting affectation.
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Oh for a tongue to curse the slave Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o'er the councils of the brave, And blasts them in their hour of might!
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A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins.
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I love to lose myself in other men's minds.... Books think for me.
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A Persian's heaven is eas'ly made: 'T is but black eyes and lemonade.
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Ceremony is an invention to take off the uneasy feeling which we derive from knowing ourselves to be less the object of love and esteem with a fellow-creature than some other person is. It endeavours to make up, by superior attentions in little points, for that invidious preference which it is forced to deny in the greater.
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The teller of a mirthful tale has latitude allowed him. We are content with less than absolute truth.
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The only true time which a man can properly call his own, is that which he has all to himself the rest, though in some sense he may be said to live it, is other people's time, not his.
Charles Lamb
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Mother's love grows by giving.
Charles Lamb