Samuel Lover Quotes
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Come live in my heart, and pay no rent.
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Circumstances are the rulers of the weak; they are but the instruments of the wise.
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My hearing has suffered seriously; just now I am obliged to have the assistance of an ear trumpet. Think of that, my beauty! - There 's a state for your old Lover to be in! - No more tender whisperings! Imagine sweet confessions to be made through an ear trumpet!
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When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can.
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Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye.
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A baby was sleeping,Its mother was weeping,For her husband was far on the wild-raging sea.
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For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in.
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To return after long years of painful absence to some place which has been the scene of our former joys, and whence the force of circumstance, and not choice, has driven us, is oppressive to the heart.
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The neck on which diamonds might have worthily sparkled, will look less tempting when the biting winter has hung icicles there for gems.
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And with my advice, faith I wish you'd take me.
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What is wine? It is the grape present in another form; its essence is there, though the fruit which produced it grew thousands of miles away, and perished years ago. So the object of many a tender thought may be spiritually present, in defiance of space - and fond recollections cherished in defiance of time.
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When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen.
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Too little is it considered, while we gaze on aristocratic beauty, how much good food, soft lying, warm wrapping, ease of mind, have to do with the attractions which command our admiration.
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Said will be a little ahead, but done should follow at his heel.
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How many chapters have been written about love verses - and how many more might be written! - might, would, could, should, or ought to be written! - I will venture to say, will be written!
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For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear.
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Oh, happy triumph of the poet! - to hear his verses wedded to sweet sounds, and warbled by the woman he loves!
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Sure my love is all crost Like a bud in the frostAnd there's no use at all in my going to bed,For 't is dhrames and not slape that comes into my head!
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'That 's eight times to-day that you 've kissed me before.''Then here goes another,' says he, 'to make sure,For there 's luck in odd numbers,' says Rory O'More.
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As she sat in the low-backed carThe man at the turn-pike barNever asked for the tollBut just rubbed his auld pollAnd looked after the low-backed car.