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The pulpit is a clergyman's parade the parish is his field of active service.
Robert Southey
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Robert Southey
Age: 68 †
Born: 1774
Born: August 12
Died: 1843
Died: March 21
Biographer
Historian
Poet
Politician
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Bristol
Gloucestershire
Robert Southey
Fields
Parish
Clergymen
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Parades
Pulpit
Active
Field
Service
Clergyman
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Cupid the little greatest god.
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Earth could not hold us both, nor can one heaven Contain my deadliest enemy and me.
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Kitten is in the animal world what the rosebud is in the garden the one the most beautiful of all young creatures, the other the loveliest of all opening flowers.
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Be thankful that your lot has fallen on times when, though there may be many evil tongues and exasperated spirits, there are none who have fire and fagot at command.
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Thou hast been called, O sleep, the friend of woe, But 'tis the happy that have called thee so.
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In the days of my youth I remembered my God! And He hath not forgotten my age.
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A stubborn mind conduces as little to wisdom or even to knowledge, as a stubborn temper to happiness
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Three things a wise man will not trust, The wind, the sunshine of an April day, And woman's plighted faith.
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Cold is thy hopeless heart, even as charity.
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Without religion the highest endowments of intellect can only render the possessor more dangerous if he be ill disposed if well disposed, only more unhappy.
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Few people give themselves time to be friends.
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It is not for man to rest in absolute contentment. He is born to hopes and aspirations as the sparks fly upward, unless he has brutalized his nature and quenched the spirit of immortality which is his portion.
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The solitary Bee Whose buzzing was the only sound of life, Flew there on restless wing, Seeking in vain one blossom where to fix.
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Order is the sanity of the mind, the health of the body, the peace of the city, the security of the state. As the beams to a house, as the bones to the microcosm of man, so is order to all things.
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The true one of youth's love, proving a faithful helpmate in those years when the dream of life is over, and we live in its realities.
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And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win. But what good came of it at last? Quoth little Peterkin. Why, that I cannot tell, said he, But 'twas a famous victory.
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My name is Death: the last best friend am I.
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What will not woman, gentle woman dare when strong affection stirs her spirit up?
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The grave is but the threshold of eternity. What a world were this, how unendurable its weight, If they whom death hath sundered, did not meet again!
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You are old, Father William, the young man cried, The few locks which are left you are gray You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,- Now tell me the reason I pray.
Robert Southey