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Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and for ever!

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
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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
Art
Bubbles
Ever
Fountain
Like
River
Thou
Rivers
Mountain
Foam
Gone
Dew
Death
Bubble

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A glass of good wine is a gracious creature, and reconciles poor mortality to itself and that is what few things can do.
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Charge, Chester, charge! on, Stanley, on! Were the last words of Marmion.
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Come forth, old man,--thy daughter's side Is now the fitting place for thee: When time has quell'd the oak's bold pride, The youthful tendril yet may hide, The ruins of the parent tree.
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...crystal and hearts would lose all their merit in the world if it were not for their fragility.
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In love quarrels the party that loves the most is always most willing to acknowledge the greater fault.
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He that would soothe sorrow must not argue on the vanity of the most deceitful hopes.
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It is only when I dally with what I am about, look back and aside, instead of keeping my eyes straight forward, that I feel these cold sinkings of the heart.
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What is a diary as a rule? A document useful to the person who keeps it. Dull to the contemporary who reads it and invaluable to the student, centuries afterwards, who treasures it.
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Spur not an unbroken horse put not your plowshare too deep into new land.
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In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster.
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The chain of friendship, however bright, does not stand the attrition of constant close contact.
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Warriors! and where are warriors found, If not on martial Britain's ground? And who, when waked with note of fire, Love more than they the British lyre?
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Caution comes too late when we are in the midst of evils.
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Silence, maiden thy tongue outruns thy discretion.
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Dear to me is my bonnie white steed Oft has he helped me at pinch of need.
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In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.
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Soldier, rest! Thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Dream of battled fields no more. Days of danger, nights of waking.
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The most learned, acute, and diligent student cannot, in the longest life, obtain an entire knowledge of this one volume.
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Who, noteless as the race from which he sprung, Saved others' names, but left his own unsung.
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As long as the Fates permit, live cheerfully.
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