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And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

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
Though
Shed
Keep
Souls
Soul
Memory
Long
Green
Tears
Memories
Shall
Rolls
Secret
Tear

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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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I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown And all that history, much that fiction weaves.
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Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.
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Can we ring the bells backward? Can we unlearn the arts that pretend to civilize, and then burn the world? There is a march of science but who shall beat the drums for its retreat?
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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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The measure of choosing well, is, whether a man likes and finds good in what he has chosen.
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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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Why are we never quite at ease in the presence of a schoolmaster? Because we are conscious that he is not quite at his ease in ours. He is awkward, and out of place in the society of his equals. He comes like Gulliver from among his little people, and he cannot fit the stature of his understanding to yours.
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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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The greatest pleasure I know, is to do a good action by stealth, and to have it found out by accident.
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How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a man's self to himself! Supreme selfishness is inculcated upon him as his only duty.
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Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.
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Not if I know myself at all.
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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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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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The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.
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Opinions is a species of property - I am always desirous of sharing.
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A Persian's heaven is eas'ly made: 'T is but black eyes and lemonade.
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For thy sake, tobacco, I would do anything but die.
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The vices of some men are magnificent.
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