Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?
Charles LambNot childhood alone, but the young man till thirty, never feels practically that he is mortal.
Charles LambI mean your borrowers of books - those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes.
Charles LambOh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid
Charles LambSo near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective, that a worn-out sinner is sometimes found to make the best declaimer against sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions which in his unregenerate state served to inflame his appetites, in his new province of a moralist will serve him (a little turned) to expose the enormity of those appetites in other men.
Charles Lamb