Oliver Goldsmith
– 4 April 1774) was an Irish novelist, playwright, poet and physician.
In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stagecoach.
The first blow is half the battle.
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time, if as be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly.
And learn the luxury of doing good.
The naked every day he clad
When he put on his clothes.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country ever is, at home.
By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd;
The sports of children satisfy the child.
As writers become more numerous, it is natural for readers to become more indolent.
Even children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellects too.
To men of other minds my fancy flies,
Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies.
Methinks her patient sons before me stand,
Where the broad ocean leans against the land.
One writer, for instance, excels at a plan or a title page, another works away at the body of the book, and a third is a dab at an index.
Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs.
They liked the book the better the more it made them cry.
O Memory! thou fond deceiver.
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.