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Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality.

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
Slumber
Hence
Immortality
Pages
Lying
Times

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But jest apart--what virtue canst thou trace In that broad trim that hides thy sober face? Does that long-skirted drab, that over-nice And formal clothing, prove a scorn of vice? Then for thine accent--what in sound can be So void of grace as dull monotony?
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Arrogance is the act of the great presumption that of the little.
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The coward never on himself relies, But to an equal for assistance flies.
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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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In this wild world the fondest and the best Are the most tried, most troubled and distress'd.
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Ability comprehends the power of doing in general, without specifying the quality or degree.
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Lawyers Are: By law's dark by-ways he has stored his mind with wicked knowledge on how to cheat mankind.
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Books cannot always please, however good Minds are not ever craving for their food.
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Life's bloomy flush was lost.
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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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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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Experience finds few of the scenes that lively hope designs.
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What is a church? Let Truth and reason speak, They would reply, The faithful, pure and meek, From Christian folds, the one selected race, Of all professions, and in every place.
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Virtues neglected then, adored become, And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.
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We cannot heal the throbbing heart till we discern the wounds within.
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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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Whatever amuses, serves to kill time, to lull the faculties, and to banish reflection. Whatever entertains, usually awakens the understanding or gratifies the fancy. Whatever diverts, is lively in its nature, and sometimes tumultuous in its effects.
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Tis easiest dealing with the firmest mind-- More just when it resists, and, when it yields, more kind.
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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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Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain, like other farmers, flourish and complain.
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