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To pile up honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness.

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
Honey
Upon
Interminable
Pile
Tedious
Sweetness
Sugar

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No woman dresses below herself from mere caprice.
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We are nothing less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.
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English physicians kill you, the French let you die.
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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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While childhood, and while dreams, producing childhood, shall be left, imagination shall not have spread her holy wings totally to fly the earth.
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You look wise, pray correct that error.
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Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.
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Can we ring the bells backward? Can we unlearn the arts that pretend to civilize, and then burn the world? There is a march of science but who shall beat the drums for its retreat?
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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 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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Half as sober as a judge.
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No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.
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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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How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye?
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I conceive disgust at these impertinent and misbecoming familiarities inscribed upon your ordinary tombstone.
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A sweet child is the sweetest thing in nature.
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The pilasters reaching down were adorned with a glistering substance (I know not what) under glass (as it seemed), resembling - a homely fancy, but I judged it to be sugar-candy yet to my raised imagination, divested of its homelier qualities, it appeared a glorified candy.
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A child's nature is too serious a thing to admit of its being regarded as a mere appendage to another being.
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Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.
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And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
Charles Lamb