Quote

To sigh, yet feel no pain To weep, yet scarce know why To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.

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
Pain
Chain
Feel
Chains
Feels
Sport
Throw
Hour
Idly
Sports
Scarce
Beauty
Weep
Hours
Sigh

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To pile up honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness.
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How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me all are departed All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
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Books of quick interest, that hurry on for incidents are for the eye to glide over only. It will not do to read them out. I could never listen to even the better kind of modern novels without extreme irksomeness.
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Coleridge declares that a man cannot have a good conscience who refuses apple dumplings, and I confess that I am of the same opinion.
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Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to be played before you enter upon him. But he brings his music, to which who listen had need bring docile thoughts and purged ears.
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Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.
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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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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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The true poet dreams being awake.
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The vices of some men are magnificent.
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Asparagus inspires gentle thoughts.
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Not if I know myself at all.
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Pain is life - the sharper, the more evidence of life.
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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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I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man.
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Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
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There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.
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Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
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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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In the Negro countenance you will often meet with strong traits of benignity. I have felt yearnings of tenderness towards some of these faces.
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