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The writer's only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much he must get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' is worth any number of old ladies.

Monday
Oct 13, 2025

Quotes: 53419
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Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
Oliver Goldsmith

Quote Author: Oliver Goldsmith

Oliver Goldsmith

Oliver Goldsmith

Oliver Goldsmith (November 10, 1730 or 1728 - April 4, 1774) was an Anglo-Irish writer, poet, and physician known for his novel The Vicar of Wakefield (1766), his pastoral poem The Deserted Village (1770) (written in memory of his brother), and his plays The Good-natur'd Man (1768) and She Stoops to Conquer (1771, first performed in 1773). (He is also thought to have written the classic children's tale, The History of Little Goody Two Shoes , giving the world that familiar phrase.)

Other Oliver Goldsmith Quotes

The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died.

This is Liberty-Hall, gentlemen.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.

Trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain.

Such is the patriot's boast, wherever we roam, His first, best country ever is, at home.

There is no arguing with Johnson, for if his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt end of it.

Modesty seldom resides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues.

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

Hope, like the gleaming taper's light, Adorns and cheers our way; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray.

Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill; Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still.

Fortune is ever seen accompanying industry.

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head should carry all it knew.

I chose my wife, as she did her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities as would wear well.

The hours we pass with happy prospects in view Are more pleasing than those crowded with fruition.

There is an unspeakable pleasure attending the life of A voluntary student.

That dire disease, whose ruthless power Withers the beauty's transient flower.

The work of eradicating crimes is not by making punishment familiar, but formidable.

As for disappointing them I should not so much mind; but I can't abide to disappoint myself.

The English laws punish vice; the Chinese laws do more, they reward virtue.

As ten millions of circles can never make a square, so the united voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood.

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.

Absence, like death, sets a seal on the image of those we love: we cannot realize the intervening changes which time may have effected.

In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still; While words of learned length and thundering sound Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around; And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew.

There is no arguing with him, for if his pistol misses fire, he knockes you down with the butt end of it.

I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellect too.

As aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow; But crush'd or trodden to the ground, Diffuse their balmy sweets around.

The canvas glow'd beyond ev'n Nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form.

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain.

The best-humour'd man, with the worst-humour'd Muse.

Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes.

The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay,— A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day.

His conduct still right, with his argument wrong.

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

Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails, And honour sinks where commerce long prevails.

Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt; It 's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.

As for disappointing them I should not so much mind; but I can’t abide to disappoint myself.

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, 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too.

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.

And as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

This same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey.

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.

You can preach a better sermon with your life than with your lips.

Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings lean'd to Virtue's side.

Our greatest glory consists not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.

Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view.

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

The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time, if as be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly.

Even children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.

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.

Turn, gentle Hermit of the Dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.

Handsome is that handsome does.

Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness of others, is a just criterion of goodness; and whatever injures society at large, or any individual in it, is a criterion of iniquity.

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made.

Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land.

Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,— His first, best country ever is at home.

To the last moment of his breath, On hope the wretch relies; And even the pang preceding death Bids expectation rise.

Like the bee, we should make our industry our amusement.

His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel.

And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks if this be joy.

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 king himself has followed her When she has walk'd before.

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word From those who spoke her praise.

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

Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore.

Little things are great to little men.

These little things are great to little man.

Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of humankind pass by.

The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.

I love everything that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine.

All his faults are such that one loves him still the better for them.

O Luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree!

And learn the luxury of doing good.

The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.

Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.

And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

Measures, not men, have always been my mark.

Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth: If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt.

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.

Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.

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

So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar But bind him to his native mountains more.

A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,— A cap by night, a stocking all the day.

Ask me no questions, and I 'll tell you no fibs.

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

Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.

The very pink of perfection.

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.

I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon.

A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year.

While Resignation gently slopes away, And all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past.

The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose.

Our Garrick 's a salad; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree!

The land of scholars and the nurse of arms.

And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray.

People seldom improve when they have no other model but themselves to copy after.

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love.

Silence gives consent.

In all the silent manliness of grief.

Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so.

By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd; The sports of children satisfy the child.

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'T was only that when he was off he was acting.

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.

For just experience tells, in every soil, That those that think must govern those that toil.

Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.

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

Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main; Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thundering sound.

We sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value of its favours.

Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.

The true use of speech is not so much to express our wants as to conceal them.

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind.

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round.

We seldom speak of the virtue which we have, but much oftener of that which we lack.

Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.

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 destroy'd, can never be supplied.

Both wit and understanding are trifles without integrity. The ignorant peasant without fault is greater than the philosopher with many. What is genius or courage without a heart?

They please, are pleas'd; they give to get esteem, Till seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.

But winter lingering chills the lap of May.

As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.

Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine!

Don’t let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter.

How blest is he who crowns in shades like these A youth of labour with an age of ease!

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

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

He who seeks for applause only from without has all his happiness in another's keeping.

Friendship is a disinterested commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves.'

If frugality were established in the state, if our expenses were laid out rather in the necessaries than the superfluities of life, there might be fewer wants, and even fewer pleasures, but infinitely more happiness.

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