Oliver Goldsmith Quotes About Heart
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Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravelled, fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
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Both wit and understanding are trifles without integrity; it is that which gives value to every character. The ignorant peasant, without fault, is greater than the philosopher with many; for what is genius or courage without a heart?
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Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign: And we shall never, never part, My life-my all that's mine!
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Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility! Or why not my fortune adapted to its impulses! Tenderness without a capacity of relieving only makes the man who feels it more wretched than the object which sues for assistance.
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What is genius or courage without a heart?
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And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks if this be joy.
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To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art.
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A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad When he put on his clothes.
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Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from town's he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd nor wish'd to change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize. More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
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A man's own heart must ever be given to gain that of another.
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Men may be very learned, and yet very miserable; it is easy to be a deep geometrician, or a sublime astronomer, but very difficult to be a good man. I esteem, therefore, the traveller who instructs the heart, but despise him who only indulges the imagination. A man who leaves home to mend himself and others, is a philosopher; but he who goes from country to country, guided by the blind impulse of curiosity, is only a vagabond.
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The wretch condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on hope relies; And every pang that rends the heart Bids expectation rise.
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The heart of every man lies open to the shafts of correction if the archer can take proper aim.
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