Oliver Goldsmith

Ireland
10 Nov 1728 // 4 Apr 1774
Writer, Poet

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.

The Bee


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On Anger: "For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind."
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