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Go where glory waits thee! But while fame elates thee, Oh, still remember me!

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
Still
Waits
Thee
Fame
Glory
Waiting
Stills
Remember

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Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
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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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Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.
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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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We were happier when we were poorer, but we were also younger.
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The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion.
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May be the truth is, that one pipe is wholesome, two pipes toothsome, three pipes noisome, four pipes fulsome, five pipes quarrelsome and that's the some on't.
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Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.
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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 man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.
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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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Half as sober as a judge.
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The greatest pleasure I know, is to do a good action by stealth, and to have it found out by accident.
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Oh call it by some better name, For friendship sounds too cold.
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By myself walking, To myself talking.
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Not many sounds in life, and I include all urban and all rural sounds, exceed in interest a knock at the door.
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I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown And all that history, much that fiction weaves.
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Here cometh April again, and as far as I can see the world hath more fools in it than ever.
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There was a little man, and he had a little soul And he said, Little Soul, let us try, try, try!
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My only books Were woman's looks,- And folly 's all they 've taught me.
Charles Lamb