A nightcap decked his brows instead of bay, A cap by night — a stocking all the day!
Description of an Author's Bedchamber (1760).
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.
The Citizen of the World (1760–1761), Letter VII.
The better sort here pretend to the utmost compassion for animals of every kind. To hear them speak, a stranger would be apt to imagine they could hardly hurt the gnat that stung them: they seem so tender and so full of pity, that one would take them for the harmless friends of the whole creation; the protectors of the meanest insect or reptile that was privileged with existence. And yet, would you believe it? I have seen the very men who have thus boasted of their tenderness, at the same time devouring the flesh of six different animals toasted up in a fricassee. Strange contrariety of conduct! they pity and they eat the objects of their compassion.
Verses in reply to an invitation to dine at Dr. Baker's.
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.
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".
A book may be very amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single absurdity.
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.
Ch. 1, opening lines.
I...chose a wife, as she did her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities as would wear well.
We sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value of its favors.
Handsome is that handsome does.
Let us draw upon Content for the deficiencies of fortune.
That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarce worth the sentinel.
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.
I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellects too.
Turn, gentle Hermit of the Dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.
Ch. 8, The Hermit (Edwin and Angelina), st. 1.
No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them: But from the mountain’s grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.
Ch. 8, The Hermit (Edwin and Angelina), st. 6-7.
Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.
Ch. 8, The Hermit (Edwin and Angelina), st. 8.
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?
Ch. 8, The Hermit (Edwin and Angelina), st. 19.
The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too.
Ch. 8, The Hermit (Edwin and Angelina), st. 33.
By the living jingo, she was all of a muck of sweat.
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.
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.
Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not strength enough to prevent it seldom has justice enough to accuse.
It seemed to be pretty plain, that they had more of love than matrimony in them.
A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad When he put on his clothes.
Ch. 17, An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, st. 3.
And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.
Ch. 17, An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, st. 4.
The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.
Ch. 17, An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, st. 5.
The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died.
Ch. 17, An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, st. 8.
To what happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit?
To what fortuitous occurrence do we not owe every pleasure and convenience of our lives.
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?
Ch. 29, Song, st. 1.
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.
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made.
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
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.
His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
How happy he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease.
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.
The watchdog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.
A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.
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.
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.
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
Even children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round.
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.
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose.
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art.
And, ev'n while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
In all the silent manliness of grief.
O Luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree!
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so.
Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree!
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth: If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt.
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.
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong.
A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me, who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.
Who peppered the highest was surest to please.
When he talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.
The best-humour'd man, with the worst-humour'd Muse.