Society and the World
Oliver Goldsmith
Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam, His first, best country ever is, at home.
Thomas Gray
Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait, Though fann’d by Conquest’s crimson wing They mock the air with idle state.
Thomas Gray
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; Along the cool sequester’d vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Thomas Gray
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.
Thomas Gray
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; Chill penury repress’d their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Thomas Gray
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Thomas Gray
Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.
Thomas Gray
Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.
Thomas Gray
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Samuel Johnson
As with my hat 7 upon my head I walk’d along the Strand, I there did meet another man With his hat in his hand. 8
Samuel Johnson
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, And pause a while from learning to be wise. There mark what ills the scholar’s life assail— Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.
Samuel Johnson
Cold approbation gave the ling’ring bays, For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise.
Samuel Johnson
Of all the griefs that harass the distrest, Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest.