Quote

O money, money, how blindly thou hast been worshipped, and how stupidly abused! Thou are health and liberty and strength, and he that has thee may rattle his pockets at the foul fiend!

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
Thou
Fiend
Thee
Rattle
Strength
Worshipped
Health
Blindly
Liberty
Hast
Money
Abused
May
Foul
Pockets
Stupidly

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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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Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
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Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.
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How I like to be liked, and what I do to be liked!
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To pile up honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness.
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A Persian's heaven is eas'ly made: 'T is but black eyes and lemonade.
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To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.
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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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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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The pilasters reaching down were adorned with a glistering substance (I know not what) under glass (as it seemed), resembling - a homely fancy, but I judged it to be sugar-candy yet to my raised imagination, divested of its homelier qualities, it appeared a glorified candy.
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We do not go to the theatre like our ancestors, to escape from the pressure of reality, so much as to confirm our experience of it.
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I could never hate anyone I knew.
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While childhood, and while dreams, producing childhood, shall be left, imagination shall not have spread her holy wings totally to fly the earth.
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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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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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Some people have a knack of putting upon you gifts of no real value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. We thank them for nothing.
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Oh call it by some better name, For friendship sounds too cold.
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Here cometh April again, and as far as I can see the world hath more fools in it than ever.
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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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English physicians kill you, the French let you die.
Charles Lamb