Oliver Goldsmith Quotes

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About Oliver Goldsmith

Oliver Goldsmith (10 November 1730 (or 1728) – 4 April 1774) was an Irish novelist, playwright, poet and physician.

Born: November 10th, 1730

Died: 1728

Categories: Irish novelists, Irish playwrights, Irish poets, Physicians, 1770s deaths

Quotes: 131 sourced quotes total

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Handsome is that handsome does.
Silence gives consent.
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain.
The first blow is half the battle.
I love everything that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines.
Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs.
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law.
Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.
The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died.
The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art.
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so.
The very pink of perfection.
In all the silent manliness of grief.
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose.
His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
A modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation.
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made.
A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay; Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon.
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
How happy he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease.
When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away?
Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not strength enough to prevent it seldom has justice enough to accuse.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
O Memory! thou fond deceiver.
But winter lingering chills the lap of May.
Friendship is a disinterested commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country ever is, at home.
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round.
The true use of speech is not so much to express our wants as to conceal them.
Don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter.
Hope, like the gleaming taper's light, Adorns and cheers our way; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray.
Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them.
They liked the book the better the more it made them cry.
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
Even children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
Turn, gentle Hermit of the Dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,— Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
O Luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree!
For he who fights and runs away May live to fight another day; But he who is in battle slain Can never rise and fight again.
Oliver Goldsmith
The Art of Poetry on a New Plan (1761), vol. ii. p. 147.
• The saying "he who fights and runs away may live to fight another day" dates at least as far back as Menander (ca. 341–290 B.C.), Gnomai Monostichoi, aphorism #45: ἀνήρ ὁ ϕɛύγων καὶ ράλίν μαχήɛṯαί (a man who flees will fight again). The Attic Nights (book 17, ch. 21) of Aulus Gellius (ca. 125–180 A.D.) indicates it was already widespread in the second century: "...the orator Demosthenes sought safety in flight from the battlefield, and when he was bitterly taunted with his flight, he jestingly replied in the well-known verse: The man who runs away will fight again".
• Source: Wikiquote: "Oliver Goldsmith" (Sourced)
In arguing too, the parson owned his skill, For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length, and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew.
And learn the luxury of doing good.
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine!
Measures, not men, have always been my mark.
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong.
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view.
The land of scholars and the nurse of arms.
Let us draw upon Content for the deficiencies of fortune.
The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too.
That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarce worth the sentinel.
Baw! Damme, but I'll fight you both, one after the other! With baskets.
Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails, And honor sinks where commerce long prevails.
All his faults are such that one loves him still the better for them.
By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd; The sports of children satisfy the child.
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar But bind him to his native mountains more.
This same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey.
Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives genus a better discerning.
And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep, A shade that follows wealth or fame, And leaves the wretch to weep?
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past.
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side.
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
He calls his extravagance, generosity; and his trusting everybody, universal benevolence.
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po.
By the living jingo, she was all of a muck of sweat.
I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellects too.
To what happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit?
As writers become more numerous, it is natural for readers to become more indolent.
The canvas glow'd beyond ev'n Nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form.
We sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value of its favors.
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes.
The watchdog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
A book may be very amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single absurdity.
The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time, if as be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly.
To the last moment of his breath On hope the wretch relies; And e'en the pang preceding death Bids expectation rise.
He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.
As aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow; But crush'd or trodden to the ground, Diffuse their balmy sweets around.
Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main; Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thundering sound.
One writer, for instance, excels at a plan or a title page, another works away at the body of the book, and a third is a dab at an index.
Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, My heart untraveled fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
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.
I was ever of the opinion that the honest man who married and brought up a large family, did more service than he who continued single, and only talked of population.
It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe it once more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in view are more pleasing than those crowned with fruition.
The premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe that the concatenation of self-existence, proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produces a problematical dialogism, which in some measure proves that the essence of spirituality may be referred to the second predicable.
You may all go to pot.
The best-humour'd man, with the worst-humour'd Muse.
That strain once more; it bids remembrance rise.
These little things are great to little man.
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel.
Who peppered the highest was surest to please.
The king himself has followed her When she has walk'd before.
We modest Gentlemen don't want for much success among the women.
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.
We are the boys That fear no noise Where the thundering cannons roar.
To what fortuitous occurrence do we not owe every pleasure and convenience of our lives.
And, ev'n while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.
Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree!
[To Mr. Johnson] If you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like whales.
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of humankind pass by.
For just experience tells; in every soil, That those that think must govern those that toil.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centers in the mind.
It seemed to be pretty plain, that they had more of love than matrimony in them.
Oh sir! I must not tell my age. They say women and music should never be dated.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me, who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
When he talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.
Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt; It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stagecoach.
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth: If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt.
There is no arguing with Johnson: for if his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt end of it.
I...chose a wife, as she did her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities as would wear well.
They would talk of nothing but high life, and high-lived company, with other fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the musical glasses.
To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land.
Travellers, George, must pay in all places: the only difference is, that in good inns, you pay dearly for your luxuries, and in bad inns you are fleeced and starved.
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. Their level life is but a mouldering fire, Unquenched by want, unfanned by strong desire.
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day.
Men may be very learned, and yet very miserable; it is easy to be a deep geometrician, or a sublime astronomer, but very difficult to be a good man. I esteem, therefore, the traveller who instructs the heart, but despise him who only indulges the imagination. A man who leaves home to mend himself and others, is a philosopher; but he who goes from country to country, guided by the blind impulse of curiosity, is only a vagabond.
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, 'T was certain he could write and cipher too.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind; Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote. Who too deep for his hearers still went on refining, And thought of convincing while they thought of dining: Though equal to all things, for all things unfit; Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit.
A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew: Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the bust whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too.
A nightcap decked his brows instead of bay, A cap by night — a stocking all the day!
Good people all, with one acord, Lament for Madame Blaize, Who never wanted a good word — From those who spoke her praise.
The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is — to die.

End Oliver Goldsmith Quotes