Charles Lamb Quotes (156 Quotes)

The measure of choosing well, is, whether a man likes and finds good in what he has chosen.

Clap an extinguisher upon your irony if you are unhappily blessed with a vein of it.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea Jehovah has triumph'd, his people are free.

Some people have a knack of putting upon you gifts of no real value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. We thank them for nothing.

The light that lies In woman's eyes.

A laugh is worth a hundred groans in any market.

Don't introduce me to that man I want to go on hating him, and I can't hate a man whom I know.

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone.

The red-letter days, now become, to all intents and purposes, dead-letter days.

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.

Not if I know myself at all.

Sentimentally I am disposed to harmony but organically I am incapable of a tune.

To live and die in scenes like this, With some we 've left behind us.

As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances, May that side the sun 's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances.

Good at a fight, but better at a play Godlike in giving, but the devil to pay.

My motto is: Contented with little, yet wishing for more.

Boys are capital fellows in their own way, among their mates; but they are unwholesome companions for grown people.

If I speak to thee in friendship's name, Thou think'st I speak too coldly If I mention love's devoted flame, Thou say'st I speak too boldly.

The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.

There was a little man, and he had a little soul And he said, Little Soul, let us try, try, try.

I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed.

Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

Those evening bells those evening bells How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime.

And oh if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree.

It is good to love the unknown.

Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken The eyes that shone Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken.

This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, There 's nothing true but Heaven.

Oh, weep for the hour When to Eveleen's bower The lord of the valley with false vows came.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, First flower of the earth and first gem of the sea.

Love on through all ills, and love on till they die.

Cards are war, in disguise of a sport.

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.

Asparagus inspires gentle thoughts.

Fly not yet 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.

And half had staggered that stout Stagirite.

She unbent her mind afterwards - over a book.

Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.

Eyes of unholy blue.

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.

Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.

Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.

Here cometh April again, and as far as I can see the world hath more fools in it than ever.

The trumpet does no more stun you by its loudness, than a whisper teases you by its provoking inaudibility

I like you and your book, ingenious Hone In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown And all that history, much that fiction weaves.

Tis the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense, and have her nonsense respected.

A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game.

I love to lose myself in other men's minds.

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.