Samuel Lover quotes:

Too little is it considered, while we gaze on aristocratic beauty, how much good food, soft lying, warm wrapping, ease of mind, have to do with the attractions which command our admiration.

My hearing has suffered seriously; just now I am obliged to have the assistance of an ear trumpet. Think of that, my beauty! - There 's a state for your old Lover to be in! - No more tender whisperings! Imagine sweet confessions to be made through an ear trumpet!

Oh, happy triumph of the poet! - to hear his verses wedded to sweet sounds, and warbled by the woman he loves!

Circumstances are the rulers of the weak; they are but the instruments of the wise.

Come live in my heart, and pay no rent.

The neck on which diamonds might have worthily sparkled, will look less tempting when the biting winter has hung icicles there for gems.

When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can.

How many chapters have been written about love verses - and how many more might be written! - might, would, could, should, or ought to be written! - I will venture to say, will be written!

Better to be safe than sorry.

What is wine? It is the grape present in another form; its essence is there, though the fruit which produced it grew thousands of miles away, and perished years ago. So the object of many a tender thought may be spiritually present, in defiance of space - and fond recollections cherished in defiance of time.

To return after long years of painful absence to some place which has been the scene of our former joys, and whence the force of circumstance, and not choice, has driven us, is oppressive to the heart.

I'll seek a four leaved shamrock in all thy fairy dells, And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I'll weave my spells!

When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen.

A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping.

For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in.

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye.

Sure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs.

There was a place in childhood that I remember well, And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell.

Said will be a little ahead, but done should follow at his heel.

There's luck in odd numbers.

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear.

Sure my love is all crostLike a bud in the frostAnd there's no use at all in my going to bed,For 't is dhrames and not slape that comes into my head!

Where's the snow That fell the year that's fled--where's the snow?