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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?

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
Left
Bosoms
Best
Earliest
Children
Wisest
Heart
Respond
World
Grown
Childhood
Enchantments
Dead
Enchantment
Child
Bosom

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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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There is a pleasure in affecting affectation.
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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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For thy sake, tobacco, I would do anything but die.
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Oh stay! oh stay! Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh 't is pain To break its links so soon.
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A Persian's heaven is eas'ly made: 'T is but black eyes and lemonade.
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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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There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.
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To pile up honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness.
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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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Go where glory waits thee! But while fame elates thee, Oh, still remember me!
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Shakespeare is one of the last books one should like to give up, perhaps the one just before the Dying Service in a large Prayer book.
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English physicians kill you, the French let you die.
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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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Anything awful makes me laugh. I misbehaved once at a funeral.
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The only true time which a man can properly call his own, is that which he has all to himself the rest, though in some sense he may be said to live it, is other people's time, not his.
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The vices of some men are magnificent.
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In the Negro countenance you will often meet with strong traits of benignity. I have felt yearnings of tenderness towards some of these faces.
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Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever puts one down without the feeling of disappointment.
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To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.
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