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Thomas Hood Quotes
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There's not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy.
Thomas Hood
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Of all our pains, since man was curst, I mean of body, not the mental, To name the worst, among the worst, The dental sure is transcendental; Some bit of masticating bone, That ought to help to clear a shelf: But lets its proper work alone, And only seems to gnaw itself.
Thomas Hood
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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
Thomas Hood
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Not one of these self-constituted saints, Quacks — not physicians — in the cure of souls.
Thomas Hood
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Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.
Thomas Hood
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John Jones he was a builder's clerk, On ninety pounds a year, Before his head was engine-turn'd To be an engineer!
Thomas Hood
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
Thomas Hood
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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
Thomas Hood
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Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint; But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?
Thomas Hood
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Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?
Thomas Hood
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I'm sick of gruel, and the dietics, I'm sick of pills, and sicker of emetics, I'm sick of pulse, tardiness or quickness, I'm sick of blood, its thinness or its thickness, — In short, within a word, I'm sick of sickness!
Thomas Hood
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One tooth he had with many fangs, That shot at once as man pangs, It had an universal sting; One tough of that ecstatic stump Could jerk his limbs, and make him jump, Just like a puppet on a string.
Thomas Hood
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
Thomas Hood
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Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.
Thomas Hood
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What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.
Thomas Hood
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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Thomas Hood
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A dentist and the wheel Of Fortune are a kindred cast, For after all is drawn, you feel It's paying for a blank at last.
Thomas Hood
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For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat
Thomas Hood
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While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
Thomas Hood
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The doctor and saw the case Plain as the nose not on his face. "O! hum — ha — yes — I understand." But then arose a long demur, For not a finger would he stir Till he was paid his fee in hand; That matter settled, there they were, With Hunks well strapp'd upon his chair.
Thomas Hood
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When Eve upon the first of Men The apple press'd with specious cant, Oh! what a thousand pities then That Adam was not Adamant!
Thomas Hood
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Some sigh for this and that; My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.
Thomas Hood
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My brain is dull, my sight is foul,
I cannot write a verse, or read--
Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl,
And let us have a lark instead.
Thomas Hood
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The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
Thomas Hood
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A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.
Thomas Hood
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Quote of the day
Life is not having been told that the man has just waxed the floor.
Ogden Nash
Thomas Hood
Creative Commons
Born:
May 23, 1799
Died:
May 3, 1845
(aged 45)
Bio:
Thomas Hood was an English poet, author and humourist, best known for poems such as "The Bridge of Sighs" and "The Song of the Shirt". Hood wrote regularly for The London Magazine, the Athenaeum, and Punch.
Known for:
The poetical works of Thomas Hood
The works of Thomas Hood (1840)
The comic annual, (1830)
Whims and oddities (1826)
Faithless Nelly Gray: A Pathetic Ballad
Most used words:
heart
time
work
gold
night
sun
leaves
love
morn
day
silence
dear
bed
head
earth
Thomas Hood on Wikipedia
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Thomas Hood works on Wikisource
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