Quotes
Quotes about Wit
A poore soule sat sighing under a sycamore tree;
Oh willow, willow, willow!
With his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee,
Oh willow, willow, willow!
There is America, which at this day serves for little more than to amuse you with stories of savage men and uncouth manners, yet shall, before you taste of death, show itself equal to the whole of that commerce which now attracts the envy of the world.
It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in,--glittering like the morning star full of life and splendour and joy.... Little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men,--in a nation of men of honour and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded.
Because half-a-dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring with their importunate chink, whilst thousands of great cattle, reposed beneath the shadow of the British oak, chew the cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make the noise are the only inhabitants of the field; that of course they are many in number; or that, after all, they are other than the little shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and troublesome insects of the hour.
He that wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our helper.
It has all the contortions of the sibyl without the inspiration.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought,
Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
Be England what she will,
With all her faults she is my country still.
Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,
The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
When one that holds communion with the skies
Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise,
And once more mingles with us meaner things,
'T is e'en as if an angel shook his wings.
He would not, with a peremptory tone,
Assert the nose upon his face his own.
I cannot talk with civet in the room,
A fine puss-gentleman that's all perfume.
The solemn fop; significant and budge;
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge.
His wit invites you by his looks to come,
But when you knock, it never is at home.
A business with an income at its heels
Furnishes always oil for its own wheels.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light.
And the tear that is wiped with a little address,
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
The earth was made so various, that the mind
Of desultory man, studious of change
And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
England, with all thy faults I love thee still,
My country!
Reading what they never wrote,
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene.
And Katerfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.
'T is pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep at such a world,--to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
With spots quadrangular of diamond form,
Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife,
And spades, the emblems of untimely graves.
With filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say, My Father made them all!
Give what thou canst, without Thee we are poor;
And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.
There is in souls a sympathy with sounds;
And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased
With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave;
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village bells
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet!
