Quote

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.

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
Full
Beggar
Public
Suit
Show
Suits
Insignia
Shows
Dress
Tenure
Dresses
Graceful
Profession
Robes
Expected
Rags
Poverty
Reproach

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I conceive disgust at these impertinent and misbecoming familiarities inscribed upon your ordinary tombstone.
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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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Half as sober as a judge.
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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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The true poet dreams being awake.
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How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye?
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Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.
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Tis unpleasant to meet a beggar. It is painful to deny him and, if you relieve him, it is so much out of your pocket.
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I can scarce bring myself to believe, that I am admitted to a familiar correspondence, and all the license of friendship, with a man who writes blank verse like Milton.
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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!
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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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For thy sake, tobacco, I would do anything but die.
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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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And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
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Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress.
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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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There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.
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For with G. D., to be absent from the body is sometimes (not to speak profanely) to be present with the Lord.
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Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.
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It is with some violation of the imagination that we conceive of an actor belonging to the relations of private life, so closely do we identify these persons in our mind with the characters which they assume upon the stage.
Charles Lamb