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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.

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
Hath
Sugar
Milk
Infusion
Luxury
Boiled
Woods
Tempered
China
Delicacy
Beyond
Wood
Kind
Tea

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The laws of Pluto's kingdom know small difference between king and cobbler, manager and call-boy and, if haply your dates of life were conterminant, you are quietly taking your passage, cheek by cheek (O ignoble levelling of Death) with the shade of some recently departed candle-snuffer.
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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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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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Positively, the best thing a man can have to do, is nothing, and next to that perhaps — good works.
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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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Were I Diogenes, I would not move out of a kilderkin into a hogshead, though the first had had nothing but small beer in it, and the second reeked claret.
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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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No one ever regarded the First of January with indifference. It is that from which all date their time, and count upon what is left. It is the nativity of our common Adam.
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Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.
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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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Shakespeare is one of the last books one should like to give up, perhaps the one just before the Dying Service in a large Prayer book.
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No one ever regarded the first of January with indifference.
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Here cometh April again, and as far as I can see the world hath more fools in it than ever.
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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.
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I can scarce bring myself to believe, that I am admitted to a familiar correspondence, and all the license of friendship, with a man who writes blank verse like Milton.
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A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying
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I love to lose myself in other men's minds.... Books think for me.
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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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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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The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever.
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