Oliver Goldsmith

And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks if this be joy.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad When he put on his clothes.

The king himself has followed her When she has walk'd before.

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word From those who spoke her praise.

Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law.

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made.

Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land.

Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings lean'd to Virtue's side.

Our greatest glory consists not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.

Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view.