Oliver Goldsmith
– 4 April 1774) was an Irish novelist, playwright, poet and physician.
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame.
Their level life is but a mouldering fire,
Unquenched by want, unfanned by strong desire.
I love everything that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines.
In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,
For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length, and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
She was all of a muck of sweat.
The best-humour'd man, with the worst-humour'd Muse.
Oh sir! I must not tell my age.
They say women and music should never be dated.
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew:
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the bust whisper, circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;
Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too.
We sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value of its favors.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind;
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote.
Who too deep for his hearers still went on refining,
And thought of convincing while they thought of dining:
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit;
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
He calls his extravagance, generosity; and his trusting everybody, universal benevolence.
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made.
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side.
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
I...chose a wife, as she did her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities as would wear well.
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
When he talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose.
A book may be very amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single absurdity.
Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt;
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.