Quote

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!

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
Like
Tongue
Blight
Slave
Treachery
Brave
Treason
Hour
Blast
Whose
Deadly
Hours
Council
Comes
Bravery
Blasts
Might
Curse
Councils

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Is it a stale remark to say that I have constantly found the interest excited at a playhouse to bear an exact inverse proportion to the price paid for admission?
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If dirt were trumps, what hands you would hold!
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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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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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No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.
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The true poet dreams being awake.
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And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
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I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man.
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Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.
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The vices of some men are magnificent.
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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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Positively, the best thing a man can have to do, is nothing, and next to that perhaps — good works.
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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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I even think that, sentimentally, I am disposed to harmony. But organically I am incapable of a tune.
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We do not go to the theatre like our ancestors, to escape from the pressure of reality, so much as to confirm our experience of it.
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As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances, May that side the sun 's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!
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The English writer, Charles Lamb, said one day: I hate that man. But you don't know him. Of course, I don't, said Lamb. Do you think I could possibly hate a man I know?
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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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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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Here cometh April again, and as far as I can see the world hath more fools in it than ever.
Charles Lamb