Quotes By Robert Blair

The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness.

Its visits, like those of angels, short, and far between.

When it draws near to witching time of night.

How blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver in comparison with those of guilt.

Friendship! Mysterious cement of the soul, Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society.

Of joys departed, not to return, how painful the remembrance.

Throughout the whole vegetable, sensible, and rational world, whatever makes progress towards maturity, as soon as it has passed that point, begins to verge towards decay.

Action, so to speak, is the genius of nature.

Affectation is certain deformity; by forming themselves on fantastic models, the young begin with being ridiculous, and often end in being vicious.