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

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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 drinking man is never less himself than during his sober intervals.
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We are nothing less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.
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Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.
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I conceive disgust at these impertinent and misbecoming familiarities inscribed upon your ordinary tombstone.
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Philanthropy, like charity, must begin at home.
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I love to lose myself in other men's minds.... Books think for me.
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Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
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Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.
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She unbent her mind afterwards - over a book.
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Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to be played before you enter upon him. But he brings his music, to which who listen had need bring docile thoughts and purged ears.
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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 cannot sit and think books think for me.
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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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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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No woman dresses below herself from mere caprice.
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Not many sounds in life, and I include all urban and all rural sounds, exceed in interest a knock at the door.
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Go where glory waits thee! But while fame elates thee, Oh, still remember me!
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We were happier when we were poorer, but we were also younger.
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There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.
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