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Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.

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
Despite
Forfeit
Fair
Sprung
Dying
Vile
Pelf
Shall
Whence
Minstrels
Living
Selfishness
Unsung
Power
Titles
Wretch
Self
Dust
Doubly
Fairs
Renown

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Nothing is more completely the child of art than a garden.
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Real valor consists not in being insensible to danger but in being prompt to confront and disarm it.
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Spangling the wave with lights as vain As pleasures in the vale of pain, That dazzle as they fade.
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Call it not vain: they do not err Who say that when the poet dies Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies.
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If a faultless poem could be produced, I am satisfied it would tire the critics themselves and annoy the whole reading world with the spleen.
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O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!
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All is possible for those who dare to die!
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O woman! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!
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Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow.
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We often praise the evening clouds, And tints so gay and bold, But seldom think upon our God, Who tinged these clouds with gold.
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Art thou a friend to Roderick?
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Honour is a homicide and a bloodspiller, that gangs about making frays in the street but Credit is a decent honest man, that sits at hame and makes the pat play.
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Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.
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To the timid and hesitating everything is impossible because it seems so.
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Fair play is a jewel.
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So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like young Lochinvar.
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What an ornament and safeguard is humor! Far better than wit for a poet and writer. It is a genius itself, and so defends from the insanities.
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Thus aged men, full loth and slow, The vanities of life forego, And count their youthful follies o'er, Till Memory lends her light no more.
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We are like the herb which flourisheth most when it is most trampled on.
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In listening mood she seemed to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand.
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