Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.
Cats are a mysterious kind of folk. There is more passing in their minds than we are aware of.
Is death the last sleep? No, it is the last and final awakening.
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man’s heart through half the year.
Nothing is more the child of art than a garden.
Real valor consists not in being insensible to danger; but in being prompt to confront and disarm it.
Heap on more wood! – the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.
Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife, and carnage drear, Of Flodden’s fatal field, When shiver’d was fair Scotland’s spear, And broken was her shield!
Merrily, merrily goes the bark On a breeze from the northward free, So shoots through the morning sky the lark, Or the swan through the summer sea.
Warriors! and where are warriors found, If not on martial Britain’s ground? And who, when waked with note of fire, Love more than they the British lyre?
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, morn of toil, nor night of waking.
Blud’s thicker than water.
The sun never sets on the immense empire of Charles V.
Wounds sustained for the sake of conscience carry their own balsam with the blow.
The schoolmaster is termed, classically, Ludi Magister, because he deprives boys of their play.
In prosperous times I have sometimes felt my fancy and powers of language flag, but adversity is to me at least a tonic and bracer.
Look at a gown of gold, and you will at least get a sleeve of it.
I was born a Scotsman and a bare one. Therefore I was born to fight my way in the world.
Spur not an unbroken horse; put not your plowshare too deep into new land.