Oliver Goldsmith

Death when unmasked shows us a friendly face and is a terror only at a distance.

A traveler of taste will notice that the wise are polite all over the world, but the fool only at home.

Aromatic plants bestow no spicy fragrance while they grow; but crush'd or trodden to the ground, diffuse their balmy sweets around.

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain.

Both wit and understanding are trifles without integrity; it is that which gives value to every character. The ignorant peasant, without fault, is greater than the philosopher with many; for what is genius or courage without a heart?

As writers become more numerous, it is natural for readers to become more indolent; whence must necessarily arise a desire of attaining knowledge with the greatest possible ease.

I chose my wife, as she did her wedding gown, for qualities that would wear well.

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

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

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad When he put on his clothes.

The malicious sneer is improperly called laughter.

Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law.

Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility! Or why not my fortune adapted to its impulses! Tenderness without a capacity of relieving only makes the man who feels it more wretched than the object which sues for assistance.

Fortune is ever seen accompanying industry.

I do not love a man who is zealous for nothing.

Crime generally punishes itself.

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.

A book may be very amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single absurdity.

[T]here are depths of thousands of miles which are hidden from our inquiry. The only tidings we have from those unfathomable regions are by means of volcanoes, those burning mountains that seem to discharge their materials from the lowest abysses of the earth.

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

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld or wandering Po.