#EnglishWriters #Romantic
The spell is broke; the charm is f… Thus is it with life’s fitful feve… We madly smile when we should groa… Delirium is our best deceiver. Each lucid interval of thought
White as a white sail on a dusky s… When half the horizon 's clouded a… Fluttering between the dun wave an… Is Hope’s last gleam in Man’s ext… Her anchor parts; but still her sn…
We do not curse thee, Waterloo! Though Freedom’s blood thy plain… There 'twas shed, but is not sunk Rising from each gory trunk, Like the water-spout from ocean,
‘Away, away, your fleeting arts May now betray some simpler hearts… And you will smile at their believ… And they shall weep at your deceiv… ANSWER TO THE FOREGO…
To hook the reader, you, John Mur… Have publish’d 'Anjou’s Margaret, Which won’t be sold off in a hurry (At least, it has not been as yet)… And then, still further to bewilde…
The ‘Origin of Love!’—Ah why That cruel question ask of me, When thou may’st read in many an e… He starts to life on seeing thee? And should’st thou seek his end to…
Ill-fated Heart! And can it be, That thou should’st thus be rent i… Have years of care for thine and t… Alike been all employ’d in vain? Yet precious seems each shatter’d…
In digging up your bones, Tom Pai… Will. Cobbett has done well: You visit him on earth again, He’ll visit you in hell.
What matter the pangs of a husband… If his sorrows in exile be great o… So the Pharisee’s glories around… And the saint patronizes her ‘char… What matters—a heart which, though…
Who killed John Keats? “I,” says the Quarterly, So savage and Tartarly; “Twas one of my feats.” Who shot the arrow?
I would to heaven that I were so… As I am blood, bone, marrow, pass… Because at least the past were pas… And for the future - (but I write… Having got drunk exceedingly today…
Good plays are scarce: So Moore writes farce. The poet’s fame grows brittle— We knew before That Little’s Moore,
There is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreath’d with mine alone… That Destiny’s relentless knife At once must sever both, or none. There is a Form on which these ey…
Time was, ere yet in these degener… Ignoble themes obtain’d mistaken p… When sense and wit with poesy alli… No fabl’d graces, flourish’d side… From the same fount their inspirat…
Why, Pigot, complain of this dams… Why thus in despair do you fret? For months you may try, yet, belie… Will never obtain a coquette. Would you teach her to love? for a…
