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Her air, her manners, all who saw admir'd Courteous though coy, and gentle though retir'd The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd.

George Crabbe

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George Crabbe
Age: 79 †
Born: 1754
Born: December 24
Died: 1834
Died: February 3
Entomologist
Medicine
Poet
Surgeon
Writer
Aldeburgh
Suffolk
Though
Gentle
Eye
Ease
Look
Air
Looks
Saws
Heart
Youth
Courteous
Every
Health
Convey
Joy
Display
Eyes
Manners

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The gentle fair on nervous tea relies, Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes An inoffensive scandal fluttering round, Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound.
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And took for truth the test of ridicule.
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Oh, rather give me commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun.
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Virtues neglected then, adored become, And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.
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To the house of a friend if you're pleased to retire, You must all things admit, you must all things admire You must pay with observance the price of your treat, You must eat what is praised, and must praise what you eat.
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Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ His wife he cabined with him and his boy, And seemed that life laborious to enjoy.
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Beauties, when disposed to sleep, Should from the eye of keen inspector keep: The lovely nymph who would her swain surprise, May close her mouth, but not conceal her eyes Sleep from the fairest face some beauty takes, And all the homely features homelier makes.
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In general satire, every man perceives A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves.
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Life's bloomy flush was lost.
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Temp'rate in every place--abroad, at home, Thence will applause, and hence will profit come And health from either--he in time prepares For sickness, age, and their attendant cares.
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Life is not measured by the time we live.
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With eye upraised his master's look to scan, The joy, the solace, and the aid of man: The rich man's guardian and the poor man's friend, The only creature faithful to the end.
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Oh how the passions, insolent and strong, Bear our weak minds their rapid course along Make us the madness of their will obey Then die and leave us to our griefs as prey!
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Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme? Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, By winding myrtle round your ruin'd shed?
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Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality.
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With awe, around these silent walks I tread These are the lasting mansions of the dead.
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Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies, Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare, And shed their substance on the floating air.
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To show the world what long experience gains, requires not courage, though it calls for pains but at life's outset to inform mankind is a bold effort of a valiant mind.
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Books cannot always please, however good Minds are not ever craving for their food.
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We cannot heal the throbbing heart till we discern the wounds within.
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