Oliver Goldsmith
– 4 April 1774) was an Irish novelist, playwright, poet and physician.
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not strength enough to prevent it seldom has justice enough to accuse.
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel.
That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarce worth the sentinel.
The very pink of perfection.
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po.
The land of scholars and the nurse of arms.
A modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation.
A nightcap decked his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night — a stocking all the day!
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain.
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of humankind pass by.
Don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter.
Baw! Damme, but I'll fight you both, one after the other!
With baskets.
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Men may be very learned, and yet very miserable; it is easy to be a deep geometrician, or a sublime astronomer, but very difficult to be a good man. I esteem, therefore, the traveller who instructs the heart, but despise him who only indulges the imagination. A man who leaves home to mend himself and others, is a philosopher; but he who goes from country to country, guided by the blind impulse of curiosity, is only a vagabond.
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong.
Hope, like the gleaming taper's light,
Adorns and cheers our way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
To the last moment of his breath
On hope the wretch relies;
And e'en the pang preceding death
Bids expectation rise.
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.