Oliver Goldsmith
– 4 April 1774) was an Irish novelist, playwright, poet and physician.
A nightcap decked his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night — a stocking all the day!
A modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation.
The land of scholars and the nurse of arms.
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po.
The very pink of perfection.
That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarce worth the sentinel.
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel.
Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not strength enough to prevent it seldom has justice enough to accuse.
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt.
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.
That strain once more; it bids remembrance rise.
I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon.
They would talk of nothing but high life, and high-lived company, with other fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the musical glasses.
Measures, not men, have always been my mark.
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.
But winter lingering chills the lap of May.
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,
Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes.
Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails,
And honor sinks where commerce long prevails.
Travellers, George, must pay in all places: the only difference is, that in good inns, you pay dearly for your luxuries, and in bad inns you are fleeced and starved.
We modest Gentlemen don't want for much success among the women.