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Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

Thomas Gray

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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
Lying
Pleasures
Upon
Romance
Read
Eternity
Mines
Mine
Romances
Eternal
Flute
Playing
Flutes
Pleasure
Consist

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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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To each his suff'rings all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan,- The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.
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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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