The poems and plays of Oliver Goldsmith (Google eBook)

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Page 27 - Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault ; The village all declared how much he knew ; 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge...
Page 53 - Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind. His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart.
Page 21 - Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene...
Page 26 - At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place : Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools who came to scoff remained to pray.
Page 65 - ... curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends ; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad and bit the man. Around, from all the...
Page 29 - The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds...
Page 29 - Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land.
Page 34 - Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Page 38 - No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn, Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them : " But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. " Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; All earth-born cares arc wrong ; Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.
Page 28 - Thither no more the peasant shall repair, To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear...

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