Thomas Love Peacock Quotes

There are two reasons for drinking wine...when you are thirsty, to cure it; the other, when you are not thirsty, to prevent it... prevention is better than cure.

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.

Clouds on clouds, in volumes driven, curtain round the vault of heaven.

The juice of the grape is the liquid quintessence of concentrated sunbeams.

The waste of plenty is the resource of scarcity.

... 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.

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.

Marriage may often be a stormy lake, but celibacy is almost always a muddy horsepond.

The mountain sheep are sweeter, But the valley sheep are fatter. We therefore deemed it meeter To carry off the latter.

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.

I never failed to convince an audience that the best thing they could do was to go away.

Names are changed more readily than doctrines, and doctrines more readily than ceremonies.

Sir, I have quarrelled with my wife; and a man who has quarrelled with his wife is absolved from all duty to his country.

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.

Nothing can be more obvious than that all animals were created solely and exclusively for the use of man.

Death comes to all. His cold and sapless hand Waves o'er the world, and beckons us away. Who shall resist the summons?

A book that furnishes no quotations, is me judice, no book, — it is a plaything.

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.

My thoughts by night are often filled With visions false as fair: For in the past alone, I build My castles in the air.

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.

How troublesome is day! It calls us from our sleep away; It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake, And sends us forth to keep or break Our promises to pay. How troublesome is day!

Laughter is pleasant, but the exertion at my age is too much for me.

Not drunk is he who from the floor - Can rise alone and still drink more; But drunk is They, who prostrate lies, Without the power to drink or rise.

The critic does his utmost to blight genius in its infancy; that which rises in spite of him he will not see; and then he complains of the decline of literature.

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.

Tea, late dinners and the French Revolution. I cannot exactly see the connection of ideas.

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.

I almost think it is the ultimate destiny of science to exterminate the human race.

Time is lord of thee: Thy wealth, thy glory, and thy name are his.

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.

Man yields to death; and man's sublimest works Must yield at length to Time.

The present is our own; but while we speak, We cease from its possession, and resign The stage we tread on, to another race, As vain, and gay, and mortal as ourselves.

Time, the foe of man's dominion, Wheels around in ceaseless flight, Scattering from his hoary pinion Shades of everlasting night.

Laughter ispleasant, butthe exertion istoomuchfor me.

But though first love's impassioned blindness Has passed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last goodnight. The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago.

But still my fancy wanders free Through that which might have been.