George Crabbe (1754 – 1832)
English poet, known for his realistic and unsentimental portrayals of peasant life.
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Books cannot always please, however good;
Minds are not ever craving for their food.
And took for truth the test of ridicule.
Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain,
Like other farmers, flourish and complain.
Time has touched me gently in his race,
And left no odious furrows in my face.
Where Plenty smiles - alas! she smiles for few,
And those who taste not, yet behold her store,
Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore,
The wealth around them makes them doubly poor.
In this fool's paradise he drank delight.
He tried the luxury of doing good.
Her air, her manners, all who saw admir'd;
Courteous though coy, and gentle though retir'd;
The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd,
And ease of heart her every look convey'd.
In idle wishes fools supinely stay;
Be there a will, and wisdom finds a way.
A master passion is the love of news.
To sigh, yet not recede; to grieve, yet not repent.
Habit with him was all the test of truth,
It must be right: I’ve done it from my youth.
Better to love amiss than nothing to have loved.
Secrets with girls, like loaded guns with boys,
Are never valued till they make a noise.
'T was good advice, and meant, my son, Be good.
The murmuring poor, who will not fast in peace.
But 'twas a maxim he had often tried,
That right was right, and there he would abide.
Oh, rather give me commentators plain,
Who with no deep researches vex the brain;
Who from the dark and doubtful love to run,
And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun.
Who calls a lawyer rogue, may find, too late
Upon one of these depends his whole estate.
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