Charles Lamb Quotes

British essayist, poet, antiquarian (1775–1834)

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Charles Lamb (10 February 1775 – 27 December 1834) was an English essayist and poet, best known for his Essays of Elia and for the children's book Tales from Shakespeare, which he produced along with his sister, Mary Lamb.

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Pen Names: Elia

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Martin, if dirt was trumps, what hands you would hold!

Romeo, Romeo!' said she, 'wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name, for my sake; or if thou wilt not, be but my sworn love, and I no longer will be a Capulet.

A presentation copy...is a copy of a book whoch does not sell, sent you by the author, with his foolish autograph at the beginning of it; for which, if a stranger, he only demands your friendship; if a brother author, he expects from you a book of yours, which does not sell, in return.

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

I love to lose myself in other men's minds. When I am not walking, I am reading.

The young man till thirty, never feels practically that he is mortal. He knows it indeed, and, if need were, he could preach a homily on the fragility of life; but he brings it not home to himself, any more than in a hot June we can appropriate to our imagination the freezing days of December.

Rich seed of virtue lying hid in poor leaves!

And half had staggered that stout Stagirite.

I love to lose myself in other men's minds. When I am not walking, I am reading, I cannot sit and think. Books think for me

Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel of her mother-in-law, that she never after cherished unjust suspicions, or was jealous of her husband.[Pg 189]

Can we unlearn the arts that pretend to civilise, and then burn the world? There is a March of Science. But who shall beat the drums, for its retreat?

The good things of life are not to be had singly, but come to us with a mixture.

Each day used to be individually felt by me in its reference to the foreign post days; in its distance from, or propinquity to, the next Sunday. I had my Wednesday feelings, my Saturday nights' sensations.

Stinking’st of the stinking kind,
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her foyson,
Breeds no such prodigious poison,
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite—

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?