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...crystal and hearts would lose all their merit in the world if it were not for their fragility.
Walter Scott
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Walter Scott
Age: 61 †
Born: 1771
Born: August 15
Died: 1832
Died: September 21
Baronet Scott
Biographer
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Edinburgh
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Walter Skott
Jedediah Cleishbotham
Laurence Templeton
Somnambulus
Malachi Malagrowther
Sir Walter Scott
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Sir Walter Scott
Sir Walter Scott
1st Baronet
Great Magician
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Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!
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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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Mystery has great charms for womanhood.
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I have heard men talk about the blessings of freedom, he said to himself, but I wish any wise man would teach me what use to make of it now that I have it.
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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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The happy combination of fortuitous circumstances.
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Never was flattery lost on a poet's ear a simple race, they waste their toil for the vain tribute of a smile.
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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.
Walter Scott
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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Mellow nuts have the hardest rind.
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The sun never sets on the immense empire of Charles V.
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Recollect that the Almighty, who gave the dog to be companion of our pleasures and our toils, hath invested him with a nature noble and incapable of deceit.
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I was not always a man of woe.
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Those who are too idle to read, save for the purpose of amusement, may in these works acquire some acquaintance with history, which, however inaccurate, is better than none.
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Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle your horses, and call up your men Come open the West Port, and let me gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!
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For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.
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Loud o'er my head though awful thunders roll, And vivid lightnings flash from pole to pole, Yet 'tis Thy voice, my God, that bids them fly, Thy arm directs those lightnings through the sky. Then let the good Thy mighty name revere, And hardened sinners Thy just vengeance fear.
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November's sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear.
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Contentions fierce, Ardent, and dire, spring from no petty cause.
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Literature is a great staff, but a very sorry crutch.
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