Over 40,000 Famous Quotes Sorted By Topic and Author

The play bill which is said to have announced the tragedy of Hamlet, the character of the Prince of Denmark being left out.

Ambition breaks the ties of blood, and forgets the obligations of gratitude.

Art thou a friend to Roderick?

England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.

Contentions fierce, Ardent, and dire, spring from no petty cause.

Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!

Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains, Winning from Reason's hand the reins, Pity and woe! for such a mind Is soft contemplative, and kind.

Some feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than heaven.

A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew.

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.

Jock, when he hae naething else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing, Jock, when ye're sleeping.

Haste, holy Friar, Haste, ere the sinner shall expire! Of all his guilt let him be shriven, And smooth his path from earth to heaven!

In man's most dark extremity Oft succor dawns from Heaven.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive! - Marmion.

And honeysuckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruin'd wall.

One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum, in which men steal through existence, like sluggish waters through a marsh, without either honour or observation.

One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum.

In listening mood she seemed to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand.

Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou are gone, and for ever!

Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, From wandering on a foreign strand!