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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
Hold
Trump
Hands
Would
Trumps
Dirt

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A poor relation—is the most irrelevant thing in nature.
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Lawyers, I suppose, were children once.
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I love to lose myself in other men's minds.... Books think for me.
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May be the truth is, that one pipe is wholesome, two pipes toothsome, three pipes noisome, four pipes fulsome, five pipes quarrelsome and that's the some on't.
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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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Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.
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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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Literature is a bad crutch, but a good walking-stick.
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In every thing that relates to science, I am a whole Encyclopaedia behind the rest of the world.
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Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
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May my last breath be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled in a jest.
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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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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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Half as sober as a judge.
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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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You do not play then at whist, sir? Alas, what a sad old age you are preparing for yourself!
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Fly not yet 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.
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Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever puts one down without the feeling of disappointment.
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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 have sat through an Italian opera, til, for sheer pain, and inexplicable anguish, I have rushed out into the noisiest places of the crowded street, to solace myself with sounds which I was not obliged to follow and get rid of the distracting torment of endless, fruitless, barren attention!
Charles Lamb