Charles Lamb Quotes
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Martin, if dirt was trumps, what hands you would hold!
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Of Coleridge His face when he repeats his verses hath its ancient glory, an Archangel a little damaged.
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The good things of life are not to be had singly, but come to us with a mixture.
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Your borrowers of books-those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes.
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For with G. D., to be absent from the body is sometimes (not to speak profanely) to be present with the Lord.
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Cultivate simplicity or rather should I say banish elaborateness, for simplicity springs spontaneous from the heart.
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Thou through such a mist dost show us,That our best friends do not know us.
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A good-natured woman...which is as much as you can expect from a friend's wife, whom you got acquainted with a bachelor.
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How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a man's self to himself.
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And half had staggered that stout Stagirite.
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I have been trying all my life to like Scotchmen, and am obliged to desist from the experiment in despair.
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He might have proved a useful adjunct, if not an ornament to society.
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New Year's Day is every man's birthday.
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A pun is not bound by the laws which limit nicer wit. It is a pistol let off at the ear; not a feather to tickle the intellect.
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Books think for me.
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Nursed amid her London's noise, her crowds, her beloved smoke, what have I been doing all my life, if I have not lent out my heart with usury to such scenes?
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Returning to town in the stage-coach, which was filled with Mr. Gilman's guests, we stopped for a minute or two at Kentish Town. A woman asked the coachman, 'Are you full inside?' Upon which Lamb put his head through the window and said, 'I am quite full inside; that last piece of pudding at Mr. Gilman's did the business for me.'
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Look upward, Feeble Ones! look up, and trustThat He, who lays this mortal frame in dust,Still hath the immortal Spirit in His keepingIn Jesus' sight they are not dead, but sleeping
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Sentimentally I am disposed to harmony; but organically I am incapable of a tune.
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When my sonnet was rejected, I exclaimed, 'Damn the age; I will write for Antiquity!'
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Can we ring the bells backward? Can we unlearn the arts that pretend to civilize, and then burn the world? There is a march of science; but who shall beat the drums for its retreat?
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I came home for ever!
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It argues an insensibility.
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Riddle of destiny, who can showWhat thy short visit meant, or knowWhat thy errand here below?