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A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying

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
Crushed
Babyhood
Piece
Coffin
Flow
Extinct
Dying
Coffins
Pieces
Nameless
Lying
Bud
Sense
Scarce
Cradle

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The teller of a mirthful tale has latitude allowed him. We are content with less than absolute truth.
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Half as sober as a judge.
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A babe is fed with milk and praise.
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A man may do very well with a very little knowledge, and scarce be found out in mixed company everybody is so much more ready to produce his own, than to call for a display of your acquisitions.
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If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick-bed. How the patient lords it there!
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My theory is to enjoy life, but my practice is against it.
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Man is a gaming animal. He must always be trying to get the better in something or other.
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Opinions is a species of property - I am always desirous of sharing.
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Can we ring the bells backward? Can we unlearn the arts that pretend to civilize, and then burn the world? There is a march of science but who shall beat the drums for its retreat?
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How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a man's self to himself! Supreme selfishness is inculcated upon him as his only duty.
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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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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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No one ever regarded the first of January with indifference.
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The drinking man is never less himself than during his sober intervals.
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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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Anything awful makes me laugh. I misbehaved once at a funeral.
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To pile up honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness.
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Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress.
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Books of quick interest, that hurry on for incidents are for the eye to glide over only. It will not do to read them out. I could never listen to even the better kind of modern novels without extreme irksomeness.
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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.
Charles Lamb