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.
Roxana, from the Court returning late, Sigh'd her soft sorrow at St James's gate: Such heavy thoughts lay brooding in her breast, Not her own chairmen with more weight oppress'd:...
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;...
St John, whose love indulged my labours past, Matures my present, and shall bound my last! Why will you break the Sabbath of my days? Now sick alike of envy and of praise....
Say, St John, who alone peruse With candid eye the mimic Muse, What schemes of politics, or laws, In Gallic lands the patriot draws! Is then a greater work in hand, Than all the tomes of Haines's band?...
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,...
Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song, To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, The dreams of Pindus, and the Aonian maids,...
'Not to admire, is all the art I know, To make men happy, and to keep them so.' (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech, So take it in the very words of Creech.)[136]...
Though sprightly Sappho force our love and praise, A softer wonder my pleased soul surveys, The mild Erinna, blushing in her bays. So, while the sun's broad beam yet strikes the sight,...