Nothing so true as what you once let fall-- 'Most women have no characters at all.' Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair. ...
O gate, how cam'st thou here? Gate. I was brought from Chelsea last year, Batter'd with wind and weather. Inigo Jones put me together; Sir Hans Sloane Let me alone: Burlington brought me hither.
Authors the world and their dull brains have traced To fix the ground where Paradise was placed; Mind not their learned whims and idle talk; Here, here's the place where these bright angels walk.
Say, lovely youth, that dost my heart command, Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand? Must then her name the wretched writer prove, To thy remembrance lost, as to thy love?...
What, and how great, the virtue and the art To live on little with a cheerful heart; (A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine) Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine;...
The Mighty Mother, and her son who brings The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings, I sing. Say you, her instruments the great! Called to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate;...
But in her Temple's last recess inclos'd, On Dulness' lap th' Anointed head repos'd. Him close she curtains round with Vapours blue, And soft besprinkles with Cimmerian dew....
Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of light Indulge, dread Chaos, and eternal Night! Of darkness visible so much be lent, As half to show, half veil, the deep intent. Ye pow'rs! whose mysteries restor'd I sing,...
He said, and pass'd with sad presaging heart To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part; At home he sought her, but he sought in vain: She, with one maid of all her menial train,...
Well, if it be my time to quit the stage, Adieu to all the follies of the age! I die in charity with fool and knave, Secure of peace at least beyond the grave. I've had my purgatory here betimes,...
Behold the woes of matrimonial life, And hear with reverence an experienced wife! To dear-bought wisdom give the credit due, And think, for once, a woman tells you true....
To thee, we wretches of the Houyhnhnm band, Condemn'd to labour in a barbarous land, Return our thanks. Accept our humble lays, And let each grateful Houyhnhnm neigh thy praise. ...