Oliver Goldsmith
Ireland
10 Nov 1728 // 4 Apr 1774
Writer, Poet
10 Nov 1728 // 4 Apr 1774
Writer, Poet
Quotes
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They please, are pleas'd; they give to get esteem,
Till seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
Till seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
The Traveller
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.
The Deserted Village
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt.
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt.
Retaliation
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.
The Deserted Village
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.
He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.
Retaliation
He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.
Retaliation
There is no arguing with him, for if his pistol misses fire, he knockes you down with the butt end of it.
Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt;
It 's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.
It 's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.
The Haunch of Venison
The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time, if as be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly.
She Stoops to Conquer
Friendship is a disinterested commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves.
Search
On Anger: "For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind."
Essays
Essays
On Destiny: "Our destiny exercises its influence over us even when, as yet, we have not learned its nature: it is our future that lays down the law of our today."
Human, All Too Human
Human, All Too Human
On Friendship: "A crowd is not company; and faces are but a gallery of pictures; and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love."
Essays
Essays