Quote

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.

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
Gay
Rough
Tickle
Fair
Rely
Relies
Eyes
Wounds
Fluttering
Eye
Round
Sparkle
Nature
Gentle
Whilst
Light
Rounds
Wound
Good
Nervous
Scandal
Inoffensive
Fairs
Tea
Sparkles

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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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A sly old fish, too cunning for the hook.
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Books cannot always please, however good Minds are not ever craving for their food.
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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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An infatuated man is not only foolish, but wild.
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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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Blest be the gracious Power, who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind! Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing, Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring But Man alone has skill and power to send The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend 'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.
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Arrogance is the act of the great presumption that of the little.
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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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And took for truth the test of ridicule.
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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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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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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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With awe, around these silent walks I tread These are the lasting mansions of the dead.
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Life is not measured by the time we live.
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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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I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms, For him that gazes or for him that farms.
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Virtues neglected then, adored become, And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.
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