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A sinful heart makes feeble hand.
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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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
The Great Unknown
Feeble
Hand
Makes
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Heart
Sinful
More quotes by Walter Scott
I will but confess the sins of my green cloak to my grey friar's frock, and all shall be well again.
Walter Scott
Without courage there cannot be truth, and without truth there can be no other virtue.
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To the timid and hesitating everything is impossible because it seems so.
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The willow which bends to the tempest often escapes better than the oak which resists it.
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I cannot tell how the truth may be I say the tale as it was said to me.
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My foot is on my native heath, and my name is MacGregor.
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Where, where was Roderick then? One blast upon his bugle horn Were worth a thousand men.
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My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, My gentle guide, in following thee.
Walter Scott
He that climbs a ladder must begin at the first round.
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I like a highland friend who will stand by me not only when I am in the right, but when I am a little in the wrong.
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The heart-sick faintness of the hope delayed!
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We build statues out of snow, and weep to see them melt.
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Thou hast had thty day, old dame, but thy sun has long been set. Thou art now the very emblem of an old warhorse turned out on the barren heath thou hast had thy paces in thy time, but now a broken amble is the best of them.
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There never will exist anything permanently noble and excellent in the character which is a stranger to resolute self-denial.
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It was in the beginning of the month of November, 17--, when a young English gentleman, who had just left the university of Oxford, made use of the liberty afforded him, to visit some parts of the north of England and curiosity extended his tour into the adjacent frontier of the sister country.
Walter Scott
A ruin should always be protected but never repaired - thus may we witness full the lingering legacies of the past.
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Where lives the man that has not tried How mirth can into folly glide, And folly into sin!
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Many of our cares are but a morbid way of looking at our privileges
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Love, to her ear, was but a name, Combin'd with vanity and shame Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all Bounded within the cloister wall.
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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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