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And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

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
Steal
Stealing
Soon
Young
Heart
Maiden
Maidens
Stolen

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I know that a sweet child is the sweetest thing in nature?but the prettier the kind of a thing is, the more desirable it is that it should be pretty of its kind.
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Asparagus inspires gentle thoughts.
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Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?
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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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You may derive thoughts from others your way of thinking, the mould in which your thoughts are cast, must be your own.
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Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime!
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Literature is a bad crutch, but a good walking-stick.
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I hate a man who swallows [his food], affecting not to know what he is eating. I suspect his taste in higher matters.
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I have sat through an Italian opera, til, for sheer pain, and inexplicable anguish, I have rushed out into the noisiest places of the crowded street, to solace myself with sounds which I was not obliged to follow and get rid of the distracting torment of endless, fruitless, barren attention!
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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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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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I could never hate anyone I knew.
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I have done all that I came into this world to do. I have worked task work, and have the rest of the day to myself.
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Some people have a knack of putting upon you gifts of no real value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. We thank them for nothing.
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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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A presentation copy...is a copy of a book whoch does not sell, sent you by the author, with his foolish autograph at the beginning of it for which, if a stranger, he only demands your friendship if a brother author, he expects from you a book of yours, which does not sell, in return.
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No woman dresses below herself from mere caprice.
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Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
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No one ever regarded the first of January with indifference.
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A poor relation—is the most irrelevant thing in nature.
Charles Lamb