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And took for truth the test of ridicule.

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
Ridicule
Test
Tests
Took
Truth

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In general satire, every man perceives A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves.
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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.
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Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality.
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Against her foes Religion well defends Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends.
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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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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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I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms, For him that gazes or for him that farms.
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There is no mind so weak and powerless as not to have its inclinations, and none so guarded as to be without its prepossessions.
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Ability comprehends the power of doing in general, without specifying the quality or degree.
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Experience finds few of the scenes that lively hope designs.
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Better to love amiss than nothing to have loved.
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Virtues neglected then, adored become, And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.
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Dreams are like portraits and we find they please because they are confessed resemblances.
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Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views, Life's little cares and little pains refuse? Shall he not rather feel a double share Of mortal woe, when doubly arm'd to bear?
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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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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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An infatuated man is not only foolish, but wild.
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Life's bloomy flush was lost.
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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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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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