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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.

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
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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
Religion
Mirth
Looks
Cheerfulness
Great
Disgrace
Solemn
Severe
Enemy
Imagine
Faces
Pensive

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If a farmer fills his barn with grain, he gets mice. If he leaves it empty, he gets actors.
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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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I will tear this folly from my heart, though every fibre bleed as I rend it away!
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Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel.
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Necessity--thou best of peacemakers, As well as surest prompter of invention.
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Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.
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Ridicule often checks what is absurd, and fully as often smothers that which is noble.
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Commend me to sterling honesty though clad in rags.
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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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Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.
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Steady of heart and stout of hand.
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The sickening pang of hope deferr'd.
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In the name of God! said Gurth, how came they prisoners? and to whom? Our master was too ready to fight, said the Jester, and Athelstane was not ready enough, and no other person was ready at all.
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Good even, good fair moon, good even to thee. I prithee, dear moon, now show to me the form and the features, the speech and degree, of the man that true lover of mine shall be.
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Every hour has its end.
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Merrily, merrily goes the bark On a breeze from the northward free, So shoots through the morning sky the lark, Or the swan through the summer sea.
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The tear, down childhood's cheek that flows, Is like the dewdrop on the rose When next the summer breeze comes by And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
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It was woman that taught me cruelty, and on woman therefore I have exercised it.
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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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Contentions fierce, Ardent, and dire, spring from no petty cause.
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