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He Kept At True Good Humor's Mark The Social Flow Of Pleasure's Tide: He Never Made A Brow Look Dark, Nor Caused A Tear, But When He Died.

-Thomas Love Peacock

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He Kept At True

Thomas Love Peacock

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He Kept At True Good Humor's Mark The Social Flow Of Pleasure's Tide: He Never Made A Brow Look Dark, Nor Caused A Tear, But When He Died.

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When Scythrop Grew Up, He Was Sent, As Usual, To A Public School, Where A Little Learning Was Painfully Beaten Into Him, And From Thence To The University, Where It Was Carefully Taken Out Of Him.

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Death Comes To All. His Cold And Sapless Hand Waves O'er The World, And Beckons Us Away. Who Shall Resist The Summons?

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In A Bowl To Sea Went Wise Men Three, On A Brilliant Night Of June: They Carried A Net, And Their Hearts Were Set On Fishing Up The Moon.

The Truth, I Am Convinced, Is That There Is No Longer A Poetical Audience Among The Higher Class Of Minds, That Moral, Political, And Physical Science Have Entirely Withdrawn From Poetry The Attention Of All Whose Attention Is Worth Having; And That The Poetical Reading Public Being Composed Of The Mere Dregs Of The Intellectual Community, The Most Sufficing Passport To Their Favour Must Rest On The Mixture Of A Little Easily-intelligible Portion Of Mawkish Sentiment With An Absolute Negation Of Reason And Knowledge.

Time, The Foe Of Man's Dominion, Wheels Around In Ceaseless Flight, Scattering From His Hoary Pinion Shades Of Everlasting Night.

They Have Poisoned The Thames And Killed The Fish In The River. A Little Further Development Of The Same Wisdom And Science Will Complete The Poisoning Of The Air, And Kill The Dwellers On The Banks. I Almost Think It Is The Destiny Of Science To Exterminate The Human Race.

My Thoughts By Night Are Often Filled With Visions False As Fair: For In The Past Alone, I Build My Castles In The Air.

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Sir, I Have Quarrelled With My Wife; And A Man Who Has Quarrelled With His Wife Is Absolved From All Duty To His Country.

... Where The Greeks Had Modesty, We Have Cant; Where They Had Poetry, We Have Cant; Where They Had Patriotism, We Have Cant; Where They Had Anything That Exalts, Delights, Or Adorns Humanity, We Have Nothing But Cant, Cant, Cant.

I Like The Immaterial World. I Like To Live Among Thoughts And Images Of The Past And The Possible, And Even Of The Impossible, Now And Then.

A Book That Furnishes No Quotations, Is Me Judice, No Book, — It Is A Plaything.

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Man Yields To Death; And Man's Sublimest Works Must Yield At Length To Time.

I Never Failed To Convince An Audience That The Best Thing They Could Do Was To Go Away.

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The Highest Wisdom And The Highest Genius Have Been Invariably Accompanied With Cheerfulness. We Have Sufficient Proofs On Record That Shakespeare And Socrates Were The Most Festive Companions.

My Quarrel With Him Is, That His Works Contain Nothing Worth Quoting; And A Book That Furnishes No Quotations, Is Me Judice, No Book,—it Is A Plaything.

Seamen Three! What Men Be Ye? Gotham's Three Wise Men We Be. Whither In Your Bowl So Free? To Rake The Moon From Out The Sea. The Bowl Goes Trim. The Moon Doth Shine, And Our Ballast Is Old Wine.

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