161 Quotes by Thomas Hood

There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.

Comfort and indolence are cronies.

Fuss is the froth of business.

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.

Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.

What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.

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!

The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.

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.