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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.

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
Church
Meek
Christian
Reply
Speak
Folds
Place
Selected
Truth
Faithful
Reason
Profession
Every
Pure
Would
Race
Professions

More quotes by George Crabbe

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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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Learning is better worth than houses or land.
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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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In general satire, every man perceives A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves.
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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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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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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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A sly old fish, too cunning for the hook.
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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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Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain, like other farmers, flourish and complain.
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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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Anger makes us strong, Blind and impatient, And it leads us wrong The strength is quickly lost We feel the error long.
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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
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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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See Time has touched me gently in his race, And left no odious furrows in my face.
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With awe, around these silent walks I tread These are the lasting mansions of the dead.
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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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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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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 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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