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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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
Ever
Done
Oblige
Posterity
Asks
May
More quotes by Thomas Gray
Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
Thomas Gray
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
Thomas Gray
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.
Thomas Gray
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Thomas Gray
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
Thomas Gray
Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
Thomas Gray
We frolic while 'tis May.
Thomas Gray
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Thomas Gray
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Thomas Gray
Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Thomas Gray
Thought would destroy their paradise.
Thomas Gray
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Thomas Gray
Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Thomas Gray
To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
Thomas Gray
The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
Thomas Gray
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
Thomas Gray
To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain / Th' unfeeling for his own.
Thomas Gray
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.
Thomas Gray
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Thomas Gray
Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
Thomas Gray