Quotes
Quotes - Goldsmith
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so.
Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt;
It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.
As aromatic plants bestow
No spicy fragrance while they grow;
But crush'd or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.
To the last moment of his breath,
On hope the wretch relies;
And even the pang preceding death
Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the gleaming taper's light,
Adorns and cheers our way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree!
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.
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'T was only that when he was off he was acting.
He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.
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.
The king himself has followed her
When she has walk'd before.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,--
A cap by night, a stocking all the day.
This same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey.
