Oliver Goldsmith

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

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'T was only that when he was off he was acting.

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.

For just experience tells, in every soil, That those that think must govern those that toil.

Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld or wandering Po.

And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray.

People seldom improve when they have no other model but themselves to copy after.

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love.

Silence gives consent.