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

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There is a pleasure in affecting affectation.
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No woman dresses below herself from mere caprice.
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Is the world all grown up? Is childhood dead? Or is there not in the bosom of the wisest and the best some of the child's heart left, to respond to its earliest enchantments?
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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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Don't introduce me to that man! I want to go on hating him, and I can't hate a man whom I know.
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A poor relation—is the most irrelevant thing in nature.
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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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Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see another mountain in my life.
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Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
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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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Your absence of mind we have borne, till your presence of body came to be called in question by it.
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I am accounted by some people as a good man. How cheap that character is acquired! Pay your debts, don't borrow money, nor twist your kitten's neck off, nor disturb a congregation, etc., your business is done. I know things of myself, which would make every friend I have fly me as a plague patient.
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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!
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Half as sober as a judge.
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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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May my last breath be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled in a jest.
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If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick-bed. How the patient lords it there!
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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 have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature.
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And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon.
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