Oliver Goldsmith

Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.

Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.

Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not strength to
prevent, it seldom has justice enough to read more

Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not strength to
prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse.

A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they read more

A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.

"Very well," cried I, "that's a good girl; I find you are
perfectly qualified for making converts, and so read more

"Very well," cried I, "that's a good girl; I find you are
perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help your
mother to make the gooseberry bye."

How small of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!
read more

How small of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!
Still to ourselves in every place consigned,
Our own felicity we make or find.
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.