We modest Gentlemen don't want for much success among the women. - Oliver Goldsmith

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.

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.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad
When he put on his clothes.