Oliver Goldsmith
– 4 April 1774) was an Irish novelist, playwright, poet and physician.
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.
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.
Yet was he kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declar'd how much he knew,
'T was certain he could write and cipher too.
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law.
How happy he who crowns in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease.
The canvas glow'd beyond ev'n Nature warm,
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form.
Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train,
To traverse climes beyond the western main;
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound.
In all the silent manliness of grief.
Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain,
With grammar, and nonsense, and learning;
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,
Gives genus a better discerning.
Handsome is that handsome does.
There is no arguing with Johnson: for if his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt end of it.
Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,
My heart untraveled fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
Who peppered the highest was surest to please.
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze,
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore.
We modest Gentlemen don't want for much success among the women.
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.