As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,- Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Oliver GoldsmithWept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.
Oliver GoldsmithSuch dainties to them, their health it might hurt; It 's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.
Oliver Goldsmith