Here lies the Earl of Suffolk’s f… Men call’d him Dicky Pearce; His folly served to make folks lau… When wit and mirth were scarce. Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone…

Tormented with incessant pains, Can I devise poetic strains? Time was, when I could yearly pay My verse to Stella’s native day: But now unable grown to write,

I will not build on yonder mount; And, should you call me to account… Consulting with myself, I find It was no levity of mind. Whate’er I promised or intended,

Well; ’tis as Bickerstaff has gue… Though we all took it for a jest: Partridge is dead; nay more, he di… Ere he could prove the good 'squir… Strange, an astrologer should die

When Naboth’s vineyard look’d so… The king cried out, ‘Would this w… And yet no reason could prevail To bring the owner to a sale. Jezebel saw, with haughty pride,

Ye poets ragged and forlorn, Down from your garrets haste; Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, Not yet consign’d to paste; I know a trick to make you thrive;

This city can omit no opportunity of expressing their hearty affection for her majesty’s person and government; and their regard for your grace, who has the honour of representing her i...

“His Grace! impossible! what, dea… Of old age too, and in his bed! And could that mighty warrior fall… And so inglorious, after all? Well, since he’s gone, no matter h…

Charming oysters I cry: My masters, come buy, So plump and so fresh, So sweet is their flesh, No Colchester oyster

This day, dear Bec, is thy nativi… Had Fate a luckier one, she’d giv… She chose a thread of greatest len… And doubly twisted it for strength… Nor will be able with her shears

The Dean would visit Market-Hill… Our invitation was but slight; I said ‘Why let him, if he will:’ And so I bade Sir Arthur write. His manners would not let him wait…

If, dearest Dismal, you for once… Upon a single dish, and tavern win… Toland to you this invitation send… To eat the calfs head with your tr… Suspend awhile your vain ambitious…

To their Excellencies the Lords… The humble petition of Frances Ha… Who must starve and die a maid if… Humble sheweth, that I went to wa… was cold;

Gently stir and blow the fire, Lay the mutton down to roast, Dress it quickly, I desire, In the dripping put a toast, That I hunger may remove—

The nymph who wrote this in an amo… I cannot but envy the pride of her… Which thus she will venture profus… On so mean a design, and a subject… For mean’s her design, and her sub…