Oliver Goldsmith

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

Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view.

He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.

The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time, if as be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly.

Even children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.

What cities, as great as this, have . . . promised themselves immortality! Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some. The sorrowful traveller wanders over the awful ruins of others. . . . Here stood their citadel, but now grown over with weeds; there their senate-house, but now the haunt of every noxious reptile; temples and theatres stood here, now only an undistinguished heap of ruins.

Turn, gentle Hermit of the Dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.

Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt; It 's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.

As for disappointing them I should not so much mind; but I can't abide to disappoint myself.

Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd. Yet was he kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declar'd how much he knew, 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too.