This rose—tree is not made to bear The violet blue, nor lily fair, Nor the sweet mignonette: And if this tree were discontent, Or wished to change its natural be…

Come my little Robert near— Fie! what filthy hands are here! Who that e’er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine,

The Lord of Life shakes off his d… And 'gins to sprinkle on the earth… Those rays that from his shaken lo… Meantime, by truant love of rambli… I turn my back on thy detested wal…

In a costly palace Youth goes cla… In a wretched workhouse Age’s lim… There they sit, the old men by a s… Still close and closer cowering, w… In a costly palace, when the brave…

A stranger, and alone, I past tho… We past so late together; and my h… Felt something like desertion, whe… Around me, and the well—known voic… Was absent, and the cordial look w…

'Why so I will, you noisy bird, This very day I’ll advertise you, Perhaps some busy ones may prize y… A fine—tongued parrot as was ever… I’ll word it thus—set forth all ch…

As when a child on some long winte… Affrighted clinging to its Granda… With eager wond’ring and perturbed… Listens strange tales of fearful d… Muttered to wretch by necromantic…

My neat and pretty book, when I t… They seem for any use to be unfit… My writing, all misshaped, uneven… Within this narrow space can hardl… Yet I will strive to make my hand…

‘Tis pleasant, lolling in our elbo… Secure at home, to read descriptio… Of venturous traveller in savage c… His hair—breadth ’scapes, toil, hu… The merrier passages that, like a…

SISTER. I am to write three lines, and you Three others that will rhyme. There—now I’ve done my task. BROTHER.

As busy Aurelia, ‘twixt work and… Was labouring industriously hard To cull the vile weeds from the fl… Which grew in her father’s court—y… In her juvenile anger, wherever sh…

Come, my little Robert, near— Fie! what filthy hands are here— Who that e’er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine,

My feeble Muse, that fain her bes… Write, at command of Frances West… But feels her wits not in their be… Fell lately on some idle fancies, As she’s much given to romances,

Lucy, what do you espy In the cast in Jenny’s eye That should you to laughter move? I far other feelings prove. When on me she does advance