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If dirt were trumps, what hands you would hold!

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
Dirt
Hold
Trump
Hands
Would
Trumps

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As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances, May that side the sun 's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!
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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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A babe is fed with milk and praise.
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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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Think what you would have been now, if instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history!
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The vices of some men are magnificent.
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Literature is a bad crutch, but a good walking-stick.
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To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.
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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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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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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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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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There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.
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I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man.
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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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Your absence of mind we have borne, till your presence of body came to be called in question by it.
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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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I could never hate anyone I knew.
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Coleridge declares that a man cannot have a good conscience who refuses apple dumplings, and I confess that I am of the same opinion.
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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.
Charles Lamb