More from Oliver Goldsmith

  1. He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.
  2. When he talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.
  3. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
  4. As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.
  5. Here lies David Garrick, describe me, who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
  6. His conduct still right, with his argument wrong.
  7. Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrowed his…
  8. Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree!

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