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Whose lenient sorrows find relief, whose joys are chastened by their grief.
Walter Scott
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Walter Scott
Age: 61 †
Born: 1771
Born: August 15
Died: 1832
Died: September 21
Baronet Scott
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Walter Skott
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Sir Walter Scott
Sir Walter Scott
1st Baronet
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More quotes by Walter Scott
I have sometimes thought of the final cause of dogs having such short lives and I am quite satisfied it is in compassion to the human race for if we suffer so much in losing a dog after an acquaintance of ten or twelve years, what would it be if they were to live double that time?
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Her blue eyes sought the west afar, For lovers love the western star.
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Give me an honest laugher.
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Where is the coward that would not dare to fight for such a land as Scotland?
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Guilt, though it may attain temporal splendor, can never confer real happiness the evil consequences of our crimes long survive their commission, and, like the ghosts of the murdered, forever haunt the steps of the malefactor while the paths of virtue, though seldom those of worldly greatness, are always those of pleasantness and peace.
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Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand!
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It is a great disgrace to religion, to imagine that it is an enemy to mirth and cheerfulness, and a severe exacter of pensive looks and solemn faces.
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Look at a gown of gold, and you will at least get a sleeve of it.
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Those who follow the banners oreason are like the well-disciplined battalions which, wearing a more sober uniform and making a less dazzling show than the light troops commanded by imagination, enjoy more safety, and even more honor, in the conflicts ohuman life.
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There is a southern proverb - fine words butter no parsnips.
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The sickening pang of hope deferr'd.
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The schoolmaster is termed, classically, Ludi Magister, because he deprives boys of their play.
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Silence, maiden thy tongue outruns thy discretion.
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Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains, Winning from Reason's hand the reins, Pity and woe! for such a mind Is soft contemplative, and kind.
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Thou and I are but the blind instruments of some irresistible fatality, that hurries us along, like goodly vessels driving before the storm, which are dashed against each other, and so perish.
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Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.
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O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!
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A rusted nail, placed near the faithful compass, Will sway it from the truth, and wreck the argosy.
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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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The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.
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