A Quote by James Russell Lowell

Though old the thought and oft exprest, Tis his at last who says it best. — © James Russell Lowell
Though old the thought and oft exprest, Tis his at last who says it best.
Tis well to be merry and wise, 'Tis well to be honest and true; It is best to be off with the old love, Before you are on with the new.
Men's thoughts and opinions are in a great degree vassals of him who invents a new phrase or re-applies an old epithet. The thought or feeling a thousand times repeated becomes his at last who utters it best.
[B]ut in literature, it should be remembered, a thing always becomes his at last who says it best, and thus makes it his own.
Love isn't a burst o' trumpets and a flock o' doves descendin' out o' the heavens to roost on yer heads. Tis sharin' a cup o' tea by the hearth on a cold winter's night. 'Tis the look in yer husband's eyes when ye lay yer first child in his arms. Tis the ache in yer heart when ye watch the light in his eyes dim fer the last time, and know a part o' ye has gone out o' this world with him.
For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
A man gets on a train with his little boy, and gives the conductor only one ticket. 'How old's your kid?' the conductor says, and the father says, 'He's four years old.' 'He looks at least twelve to me,' says the conductor. And the father says, 'Can I help it if he worries?
Death, with funereal shades in vain surrounds me, My reason through his darkness seeth light: 'Tis the last step which brings me close to Thee: 'Tis the veil falling, 'twixt Thy face and mine.
'Tis said that wrath is the last thing in a man to grow old.
Tis said that wrath is the last thing in a man to grow old.
This mum comes up, she's got a five-year-old kid and she says, 'Can he have your autograph, you are his favourite person in the whole world.' I thought, 'How cool is that? I've got five-year-old fans,' and as I'm signing this autograph, the mum goes, 'Yeah, yeah, you're by far the best Wiggle.'
As some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
Tis true, 'tis certain; man, though dead, retains Part of himself; the immortal mind remains.
A guy says, I'm so old that I forgot how old I am. An old woman says, I'll tell you how old you are. Take off your clothes and bend over. The man does this. The woman says, You're seventy four. The man says, How can you tell? The woman says, You told me yesterday.
The tree was so old, and stood there so alone, that his childish heart had been filled with compassion; if no one else on the farm gave it a thought, he would at least do his best to, even though he suspected that his child's words and child's deeds didn't make much difference. It had stood there before he was born, and would be standing there after he was dead, but perhaps, even so, it was pleased that he stroked its bark every time he passed, and sometimes, when he was sure he wasn't observed, even pressed his cheek against it.
Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.
Tis light translateth night; 'tis inspiration Expounds experience; 'tis the west explains The east; 'tis time unfolds Eternity.
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