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Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.

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
Shore
Unknown
Silent
Silence
Gone

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The true poet dreams being awake.
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Sassafras wood boiled down to a kind of tea, and tempered with an infusion of milk and sugar hath to some a delicacy beyond the China luxury.
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If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick-bed. How the patient lords it there!
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To pile up honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness.
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I am, in plainer words, a bundle of prejudices - made up of likings and dislikings.
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This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, Theres nothing true but Heaven.
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To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.
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I could never hate anyone I knew.
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Tis unpleasant to meet a beggar. It is painful to deny him and, if you relieve him, it is so much out of your pocket.
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A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying
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Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.
Charles Lamb
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Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.
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A man may do very well with a very little knowledge, and scarce be found out in mixed company everybody is so much more ready to produce his own, than to call for a display of your acquisitions.
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We were happier when we were poorer, but we were also younger.
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It is well if the good man himself does not feel his devotions a little clouded, those foggy sensuous steams mingling with and polluting the pure altar surface.
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This very night I am going to leave off tobacco! Surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realised.
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May my last breath be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled in a jest.
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No work is worse than overwork the mind preys on itself,--the most unwholesome of food.
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Fly not yet 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.
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English physicians kill you, the French let you die.
Charles Lamb