Oliver Goldsmith

I love everything that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines.

In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stagecoach.

Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so.

In all the silent manliness of grief.

Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.

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

To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art.

The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose.

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.

Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round.

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, …

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.

Even children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

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.

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.

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.

A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year.

The watchdog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.

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.

How happy he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease.

His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

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 …