A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year. - Oliver Goldsmith

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay;
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.

And, ev'n while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.

When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?