Maxioms by Oliver Goldsmith
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill;
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still.
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill;
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still.
How small of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!
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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.
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.
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
To what happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit?
To what happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit?
