Oliver Goldsmith
– 4 April 1774) was an Irish novelist, playwright, poet and physician.
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.
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt.
These little things are great to little man.
Good people all, with one acord,
Lament for Madame Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word —
From those who spoke her praise.
But winter lingering chills the lap of May.
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.
Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails,
And honor sinks where commerce long prevails.
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,
Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes.