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Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain, like other farmers, flourish and complain.
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
Like
Complaining
Round
Rounds
Gain
Flourish
Gains
Farming
Constant
Pleased
Wells
Complain
Well
Farmers
More quotes by George Crabbe
And took for truth the test of ridicule.
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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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I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms, For him that gazes or for him that farms.
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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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Virtues neglected then, adored become, And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.
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Books cannot always please, however good Minds are not ever craving for their food.
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Circles in water as they wider flow The less conspicuous in their progress grow, And when at last they trench upon the shore, Distinction ceases and they're view'd no more.
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Men of many words sometimes argue for the sake of talking men of ready tongues frequently dispute for the sake of victory men in public life often debate for the sake of opposing the ruling party, or from any other motive than the love of truth.
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Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality.
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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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Ability comprehends the power of doing in general, without specifying the quality or degree.
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In general satire, every man perceives A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves.
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Learning is better worth than houses or land.
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A sly old fish, too cunning for the hook.
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Against her foes Religion well defends Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends.
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See Time has touched me gently in his race, And left no odious furrows in my face.
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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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Life is not measured by the time we live.
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Experience finds few of the scenes that lively hope designs.
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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?
George Crabbe