Oliver Goldsmith
– 4 April 1774) was an Irish novelist, playwright, poet and physician.
And, ev'n while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centers in the mind.
All his faults are such that one loves him still the better for them.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is — to die.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay;
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
Friendship is a disinterested commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves.
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar
But bind him to his native mountains more.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,—
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day.
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so.
They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me, who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past.
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine!
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.