#Augustan
So when Curll’s Stomach the stron… (Infus’d in Vengenance of insulte… Th’ Avenger sees, with a delighte… His long Jaws open, and his Colou… And while his Guts the keen Emeti…
Lycidas. Thyrsis, the music of that murm’ri… Is not so mournful as the strains… Nor rivers winding thro’ the vales… So sweetly warble, or so smoothly…
Cardelia. The Basset—Table spread, the Tal… Why stays Smilinda in the Dressin… Rise, pensive Nymph, the Tallier… Smilinda.
Know then thyself, presume not Go… The proper study of mankind is man… Plac’d on this isthmus of a middle… A being darkly wise, and rudely gr… With too much knowledge for the sc…
The Mighty Mother, and her son wh… The Smithfield muses to the ear o… I sing. Say you, her instruments… Called to this work by Dulness, J… You by whose care, in vain decried…
Thy forests, Windsor! and thy gre… At once the Monarch’s and the Mus… Invite my lays. Be present, sylva… Unlock your springs, and open all… Granville commands; your aid O Mu…
Shut, shut the door, good John! f… Tie up the knocker, say I’m sick,… The dog—star rages! nay 'tis past… All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let… Fire in each eye, and papers in ea…
Semichorus. Oh Tyrant Love! hast thou possest The prudent, learn’d, and virtuous… Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim, And Arts but soften us to feel th…
See what delights in sylvan scenes… Descending Gods have found Elysiu… In woods bright Venus with Adonis… And chaste Diana haunts the fores… Come lovely nymph, and bless the s…
High on a gorgeous seat, that far… Henley’s gilt tub, or Flecknoe’s… Or that where on her Curlls the p… All—bounteous, fragrant grains and… Great Cibber sate: the proud Parn…
Celia, we know, is sixty—five, Yet Celia’s face is seventeen; Thus winter in her breast must liv… While summer in her face is seen. How cruel Celia’s fate, who hence
Resign’d to live, prepar’d to die, With not one sin, but poetry, This day Tom’s fair account has r… (Without a blot) to eighty—one. Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
Tho’ Artemisia talks, by fits, Of councils, classics, fathers, wi… Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Loc… Yet in some things methinks she fa… 'Twere well if she would pare her…
What beck’ning ghost, along the mo… Invites my steps, and points to yo… 'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bo… Why dimly gleams the visionary swo… Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly!…
With no poetic ardour fir’d I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he lov’d, or here expir’… Begets no numbers grave or gay. Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bre…
