Quotes from Walter Scott

But search the land of living men,Where wilt thou find their like again?

Where, where was Roderick then!One blast upon his bugle hornWere worth a thousand men!

Oh, Brignal banks are wild and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer queen.

When thinking about companions gone, we feel ourselves doubly alone.

We often praise the evening clouds, And tints so gay and bold, But seldom think upon our God, Who tinged these clouds with gold.

To always be intending to live a new life, but never find time to set about it — this is as if a man should put off eating and drinking from one day to another till he be starved and destroyed.

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

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

But search the land of living men, Wher wilst thou find their like 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.

Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.

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

For he that does good, having the unlimited power to do evil, deserves praise not only for the good which he performs, but for the evil which he forbears.

Is death the last sleep? No, it is the last and final awakening.

The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

Many a law, many a commandment have I broken, but my word never.

We are like the herb which flourisheth most when trampled upon

I have heard men talk about the blessings of freedom," he said to himself, "but I wish any wise man would teach me what use to make of it now that I have it.

Fight on, brave knights! Man dies, but glory lives! Fight on; death is better than defeat! Fight on brave knights! for bright eyes behold your deeds!

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive!

I have sometimes thought of the final cause of dogs having such short lives and I am quite satisfied it is in compassion to the human race; for if we suffer so much in losing a dog after an acquaintance of ten or twelve years, what would it be if they were to live double that time?

One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name

I will tear this folly from my heart, though every fibre bleed as I rend it away!

Wounds sustained for the sake of conscience carry their own balsam with the blow.