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God in his goodness sent the grapes To cheer both great and small Little fools will drink too much And great fools none at all!

Walter Scott

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Walter Scott
Age: 61 †
Born: 1771
Born: August 15
Died: 1832
Died: September 21
Baronet Scott
Biographer
Historian
Judge
Lawyer
Linguist
Literary Critic
Musicologist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Translator
Edinburgh
Scotland
Walter Skott
Jedediah Cleishbotham
Laurence Templeton
Somnambulus
Malachi Malagrowther
Sir Walter Scott
Bart.
Sir Walter Scott
Sir Walter Scott
1st Baronet
Great Magician
The Great Unknown
Drink
Grapes
Small
Cheer
Littles
Fools
Little
Sent
Great
Goodness
Much
Wine
None
Fool

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Nothing is more completely the child of art than a garden.
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If you once turn on your side after the hour at which you ought to rise, it is all over. Bolt up at once.
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Literature is a great staff, but a very sorry crutch.
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For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of Lochinvar.
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Many of our cares are but a morbid way of looking at our privileges
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He that climbs a ladder must begin at the first round.
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Each age has deemed the new-born year the fittest time for festal cheer.
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Every hour has its end.
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A good deal of philanthropy arises in general from mere vanity and love of distinction gilded over to others and to themselves with some show of benevolent sentiment.
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When a man has not a good reason for doing a thing, he has one good reason for letting it alone.
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Necessity--thou best of peacemakers, As well as surest prompter of invention.
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It is the privilege of tale-tellers to open their story in an inn, the free rendezvous of all travellers, and where the humour of each displays itself, without ceremony or restraint.
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O! many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant! And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken!
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Heap on more wood! - the wind is chill But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
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Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, morn of toil, nor night of waking.
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What skilful limner e'er would choose To paint the rainbow's varying hues, Unless to mortal it were given To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?
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And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.
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What a strange scene if the surge of conversation could suddenly ebb like the tide, and show us the real state of people's minds.
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I will but confess the sins of my green cloak to my grey friar's frock, and all shall be well again.
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Faces that have charmed us the most escape us the soonest.
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