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Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.

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
Combat
Wit
Carried
Bright
Gentle
Stain
Whose
Blade
Away
Stains
Heart
Blades

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We gain nothing by being with such as ourselves. We encourage one another in mediocrity. I am always longing to be with men more excellent than myself.
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I could never hate anyone I knew.
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The only true time which a man can properly call his own, is that which he has all to himself the rest, though in some sense he may be said to live it, is other people's time, not his.
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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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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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My only books Were woman's looks,- And folly 's all they 've taught me.
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Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
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In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from the binding.
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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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Philanthropy, like charity, must begin at home.
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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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It is with some violation of the imagination that we conceive of an actor belonging to the relations of private life, so closely do we identify these persons in our mind with the characters which they assume upon the stage.
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Dehortations from the use of strong liquors have been the favourite topic of sober declaimers in all ages, and have been received with abundance of applause by water-drinking critics. But with the patient himself, the man that is to be cured, unfortunately their sound has seldom prevailed.
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No one ever regarded the first of January with indifference.
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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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There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.
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I conceive disgust at these impertinent and misbecoming familiarities inscribed upon your ordinary tombstone.
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'T is sweet to think that where'er we rove We are sure to find something blissful and dear And that when we 're far from the lips we love, We 've but to make love to the lips we are near.
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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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