Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of… Indulge, dread Chaos, and eternal… Of darkness visible so much be len… As half to show, half veil, the de… Ye pow’rs! whose mysteries restor’…
Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the so… To heavenly themes sublimer strain… The mossy fountains, and the sylva… The dreams of Pindus, and the Aon… Delight no more —O thou, my voice…
Thou art my God, sole object of m… Not for the hope of endless joys a… Nor for the fear of endless pains… Which they who love thee not must… For me, and such as me, thou deign…
While you, great patron of mankind… The balanc’d world, and open all t… Your country, chief, in arms abroa… At home, with morals, arts, and la… How shall the Muse, from such a m…
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…
Ye Lords and Commons, Men of Wit… And Pleasure about Town; Read this ere you translate one B… Of Books of high Renown. Beware of Latin Authors all!
But our Great Turks in wit must r… And ill can bear a Brother on the… II Wit is like faith by such warm Fo… Who to be saved by one, must damn…
In that soft season, when descendi… Call forth the greens, and wake th… When op’ning buds salute the welco… And earth relenting feels the geni… As balmy sleep had charm’d my care…
Not with more glories, in th’ ethe… The sun first rises o’er the purpl… Than, issuing forth, the rival of… Launch’d on the bosom of the silve… Fair nymphs, and well—dress’d yout…
Fain would my Muse the flow’ry Tr… And humble glories of the youthful… Where opening Roses breathing swe… And soft Carnations show’r their… Where Lilies smile in virgin robe…
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
Cardelia. The Basset—Table spread, the Tal… Why stays Smilinda in the Dressin… Rise, pensive Nymph, the Tallier… Smilinda.
‘Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool. But you yourself may serve to show… Every fool is not a poet.’
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…
Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose field…