To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art.
Oliver Goldsmith (1728 - 1774)
Source: The Deserted Village
Contributed by: Zaady
The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.
Source: Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog
The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died.
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Source: The Traveller
And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore.
Little things are great to little men.
These little things are great to little man.
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of humankind pass by.
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.
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