Quotes
Quotes - Goldsmith
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff a dunce, he mistook it for fame; Till his relish grown callous, almost to displease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
No one but a fool would measure their satisfaction by what the world thinks of it.
Fortune is ever seen accompanying industry.
I hate the French because they are all slaves and wear wooden shoes.
Gay, sprightly, land of mirth and social ease Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please.
Friendship is a disinterested commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves.'
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
In all the silent manliness of grief.
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon.
While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past.
Turn, gentle Hermit of the Dale, And guide my lonely way To where you taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day.
At night returning, every labour sped, He sits him down, the monarch of a shed; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze; While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on the board.
How small of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! Still to ourselves in every place consigned, Our own felicity we make or find. With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
What if in Scotland's wilds we viel'd our head, Where tempests whistle round the sordid bed; Where the rug's two-fold use we might display, By night a blanket, and a plaid by day.
Thus 'tis with all; their chief and constant care Is to seem everything but what they are.
Thus idly busy rolls their world away.
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy.
How blest is he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease.
I have spent my life laboriously doing nothing. [Lat., Vitam perdidi laboricose agendo.]
Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Man wants but little here below Nor wants that little long.
Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives genius a better discerning.
