Quotes
Quotes about Wit
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view.
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.
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made.
How blest is he who crowns in shades like these
A youth of labour with an age of ease!
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
Even children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.
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.
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt.
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.
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong.
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.
The best-humour'd man, with the worst-humour'd Muse.
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise.
I 'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon.
I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellect too.
Turn, gentle Hermit of the Dale,
And guide my lonely way
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
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.
It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe it once more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in view are more pleasing than those crowned with fruition.
Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways
Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers.
Where gripinge grefes the hart wounde,
And dolefulle dumps the mynde oppresse,
There music with her silver sound
With spede is wont to send redresse.
And when with envy Time, transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You 'll in your girls again be courted,
And I 'll go wooing in my boys.
