Quote

It doesn't much signify whom one marries, for one is sure to find next morning that it was someone else.

Samuel Rogers

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Samuel Rogers
Age: 92 †
Born: 1763
Born: July 30
Died: 1855
Died: December 18
Banker
Poet
Writer
Author of an Ode to superstition
S Rogers
Saml Rogers
Sure
Funny
Next
Doesn
Else
Signify
Someone
Marries
Find
Marriage
Much
Morning

More quotes by Samuel Rogers

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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies!
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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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I came to the place of my birth and cried: The friends of my youth, where are they?--and an echo answered, Where are they?
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When with care we have raised an imaginary treasure of happiness, we find at last that the materials of the structure are frail and perishing, and the foundation itself is laid in the sand.
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Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day.
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Mine be a cot beside the hill A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.
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The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd, The child is born by many a pang endear'd And now the mother's ear has caught his cry O grant the cherub to her asking eye! He comes--she clasps him. To her bosom press'd He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.
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Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
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Man to the last is but a froward child So eager for the future, come what may, And to the present so insensible.
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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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Go! you may call it madness, folly You shall not chase my gloom away! There 's such a charm in melancholy I would not if I could be gay.
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I am in Rome! Oft as the morning ray Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry, Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me? And from within a thrilling voice replies, Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts Rush on my mind, a thousand images And I spring up as girt to run a race!
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The soul of music slumbers in the shell Till waked and kindled by the master's spell And feeling hearts, touch them but rightly, pour A thousand melodies unheard before!
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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
Samuel Rogers
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Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.
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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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