Oliver Goldsmith

I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon.

A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year.

While Resignation gently slopes away, And all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past.

The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose.

Our Garrick 's a salad; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree!

The land of scholars and the nurse of arms.

To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art.

Measures, not men, have always been my mark.

Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth: If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt.

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.