Sir Walter Scott

Heap on more wood - the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.

The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears.
The rose is sweetest with morning dew,
And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.

Too much rest is rust.

'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poorest man's heart thru half the year.

He that climbs the tall tree has won right to the fruit.

The will to do, the soul to dare.

To be always intending to live a new life, but never find time to set about it - this is as if a man should put off eating and drinking from one day to another till he be starved and destroyed.

Oh what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive!

To all, to each, a fair good night,
And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light.

O! many a shaft, at random sent,
Finds mark the archer little meant;
And many a word, at random spoken,
May soothe or wound a heart that's broken!

And come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but death who comes at last.