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No one ever regarded the first of January with indifference.
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
Years
Time
Nativity
January
Regarded
Indifference
Ever
Firsts
First
More quotes by Charles Lamb
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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I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man.
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Dream not ... of having tasted all the grandeur and wildness of fancy till you have gone mad!
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Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress.
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Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever puts one down without the feeling of disappointment.
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Opinions is a species of property - I am always desirous of sharing.
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Rags, which are the reproach of poverty, are the beggar's robes, and graceful insignia of his profession, his tenure, his full dress, the suit in which he is expected to show himself in public.
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My only books Were woman's looks,- And folly 's all they 've taught me.
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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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Of all sound of all bells... most solemn and touching is the peal which rings out the Old Year.
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You do not play then at whist, sir? Alas, what a sad old age you are preparing for yourself!
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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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A babe is fed with milk and praise.
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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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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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And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
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Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
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My theory is to enjoy life, but my practice is against it.
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Boys are capital fellows in their own way, among their mates but they are unwholesome companions for grown people.
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