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I have seen the day, when, if a man made himself ridiculous, the world would laugh at him. But now, everything that is mean, disgusting, and absurd, pleases them but so much the better!

Joanna Baillie

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Joanna Baillie
Age: 88 †
Born: 1762
Born: September 11
Died: 1851
Died: February 23
Playwright
Poet
Tragedy Writer
Writer
Joanna Baillie
Mean
Absurd
Much
Ridiculous
Made
Laugh
Would
Laughing
Men
Please
World
Seen
Better
Pleases
Everything
Disgusting

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My day is closed! the gloom of night is come! a hopeless darkness settles over my fate.
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Still on it creeps, Each little moment at another's heels, Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up Of such small parts as these, and men look back Worn and bewilder'd, wondering how it is.
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But woman's grief is like a summer storm, Short as it violent is.
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I am as one Who doth attempt some lofty mountain's height, And having gained what to the upcast eye The summit's point appear'd, astonished sees Its cloudy top, majestic and enlarged, Towering aloft, as distant as before.
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A good man's prayers will from the deepest dungeon climb heaven's height, and bring a blessing down.
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Half-uttered praise is to the curious mind, as to the eye half-veiled beauty is, more precious than the whole.
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Heaven often smites in mercy, even when the blow is severest.
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The bliss even of a moment still is bliss.
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Oh swiftly glides the bonnie boat, Just parted from the shore, And to the fisher's chorus-note Soft moves the dipping oar.
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It is so seldom that a young fellow has any inclination for the company of an old man. . .
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Pride is a fault that great men blush not to own: it is the ennobled offspring of self-love though, it must be confessed, grave and pompous vanity, Iike a fat plebeian in a rove of office, does very often assume its name.
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The inward sighs of humble penitence Rise to the ear of Heaven, when peal'd hymns Are scatter'd with the sounds of common air.
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A willing heart adds feather to the heel.
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The plainest case in many words entangling.
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Busy work brings after ease Ease brings sport and sport brings rest For young and old, of all degrees, The mingled lot is best.
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Tis ever thus: indulgence spoils the base Raising up pride, and lawless turbulence, Like noxious vapors from the fulsome marsh When morning shines upon it.
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O lovely Sisters! is it true That they are all inspired by you, And write by inward magic charm'd, And high enthusiasm warm'd?
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I wish I were with some of the wild people that run in the woods, and know nothing about accomplishments!
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Ah! happy is the man whose early lot Hath made him master of a furnish'd cot Who trains the vine that round his window grows, And after setting sun his garden hoes Whose wattled pails his own enclosure shield, Who toils not daily in another's field.
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She who only finds her self-esteem In others' admiration, begs an alms Depends on others for her daily food, And is the very servant of her slaves Tho' oftentimes, in a fantastic hour, O'er men she may a childish pow'r exert, Which not ennobles but degrades her state.
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