A Quote by Walter Scott

Steady of heart and stout of hand. — © Walter Scott
Steady of heart and stout of hand.
Heart of my heart, that’s who you are, Adria Morgan. Chosen and forever.” Picking her hand off his cheek, he pressed a lingering kiss to the palm before placing it over the strong, steady rhythm of that very organ. “Wolf and man, you own every part of me.
He made a sound of frustation, caught at her hand, brought it to his chest, and pressed it flat over his heart. The steady beat hammered against her palm. "Every heart has its own melody," he said. "You know mine.
The deadnettle is the Punxsutawney Phil of the plant world: short of stature but stout of heart. At the first hint of winter's wane, its stem rises from the ground, and a green, grasping hand of sepals unclenches to divulge two silky-white petals, one of which unfurls straight up toward the sky.
For the great mass of mankind the only saving grace that is needed is steady fidelity to what is nearest to hand and heart in the short moment of each human effort.
I want. . . a steady hand. A kind soul. I want to fall asleep, and wake, knowing my heart is safe. I want to love, and be loved.
A stout heart breaks bad luck.
Enthusiasm will steady the heart and strengthen the will; it will give force to the thought and nerve to the hand until what was only a possibility becomes a reality.
The duty of labor is written on a man's body: in the stout muscle of the arm,, and the delicate machinery of the hand.
But steady-cams are very different than hand-helds, because hand-held gives you that verite feel.
A stout heart may be ruined in fortune but not in spirit.
A stout heart, a clear conscience, and never despair.
Even the stout of heart shrink when they see the approach of death.
I do promise that you will survive this. Faith, my own heart is so scattered round the country now, I marvel that it has the strength each day to keep me standing. But it does,' she said, and drawing in a steady breath she pulled back just enough to raise a hand to wipe Sophia's tears. 'It does. And so will yours.' 'How can you be so sure?' 'Because it is a heart, and knows no better.
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow; work with a stout heart and resolute will.
You say that love is nonsense. I tell you it is no such thing. For weeks and months it is a steady physical pain, an ache about the heart, never leaving one, by night or by day; a long strain on one's nerves like toothache or rheumatism, not intolerable at any one instant, but exhausting by its steady drain on the strength.
Far better it is to have a stout heart always and suffer one's share of evils, than to be ever fearing what may happen.
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