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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.

Robert Southey

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Robert Southey
Age: 68 †
Born: 1774
Born: August 12
Died: 1843
Died: March 21
Biographer
Historian
Poet
Politician
Translator
Writer
Bristol
Gloucestershire
Robert Southey
May
Command
Many
Tongue
None
Fagots
Fire
Exasperated
Though
Tongues
Times
Thankful
Evil
Spirits
Spirit
Fallen

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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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For society, of all places I have ever been, Norwich is the best.
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From his brimstone bed, at break of day, A-walking the Devil is gone, To look at his little snug farm of the World, And see how his stock went on.
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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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The pulpit is a clergyman's parade the parish is his field of active service.
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Ye who dwell at home, Ye do not know the terrors of the main.
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There was a time when I believed in the persuadability of man, and had the mania of man-mending. Experience has taught me better. The ablest physician can do little in the great lazar-house of society. He acts the wisest part who retires from the contagion.
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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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No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth.
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A wise judge, by the craft of the law, was never seduced from its purpose.
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My name is Death: the last best friend am I.
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Let us depart! the universal sun Confines not to one land his blessed beams Nor is man rooted, like a tree, whose seed, the winds on some ungenial soil have cast there, where it cannot prosper.
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For a young and presumptuous poet a disposition to write satires is one of the most dangerous he can encourage. It tempts him to personalities, which are not always forgiven after he has repented and become ashamed of them.
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Earth could not hold us both, nor can one heaven Contain my deadliest enemy and me.
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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.
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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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They sin who tell us love can die With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity. Love is indestructible, Its holy flame forever burneth From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest-time of love is there.
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I can remember, with unsteady feet, Tottering from room to room, and finding pleasure In flowers, and toys, and sweetmeats, things which long Have lost their power to please which when I see them, Raise only now a melancholy wish I were the little trifler once again, Who could be pleas'd so lightly.
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There is a magic in that little world, home it is a mystic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never know beyond its hallowed limits.
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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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