Quote

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.

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
Things
Admire
Treats
Observance
Price
Praised
Praise
Retire
Pay
Pleased
Friend
Retiring
House
Admit
Must
Treat

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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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Ability comprehends the power of doing in general, without specifying the quality or degree.
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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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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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Deceivers are the most dangerous members of society. They trifle with the best affections of our nature, and violate the most sacred obligations.
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Life is not measured by the time we live.
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In general satire, every man perceives A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves.
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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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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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Better to love amiss than nothing to have loved.
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Against her foes Religion well defends Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends.
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We cannot heal the throbbing heart till we discern the wounds within.
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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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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's bloomy flush was lost.
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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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Dreams are like portraits and we find they please because they are confessed resemblances.
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Experience finds few of the scenes that lively hope designs.
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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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