Oliver Goldsmith

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind.

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round.

We seldom speak of the virtue which we have, but much oftener of that which we lack.

Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay. Princes and lords may flourish or may fade,- A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.

Both wit and understanding are trifles without integrity. The ignorant peasant without fault is greater than the philosopher with many. What is genius or courage without a heart?

They please, are pleas'd; they give to get esteem, Till seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.

But winter lingering chills the lap of May.

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.

We sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value of its favours.