#EnglishWriters #FemaleWriters
Once Juno’s Bird (as Authors say… Was seiz’d on by some Birds of Pr… They pluck’d his Feathers, one by… Till all his useful Plumes were g… Stript him of ev’ry thing beside;
WELL you Sincerity display, A virtue wond’rous rare! Nor value, tho’ the world should s… You’re rude, so you’re sincere. To be sincere, then, give me leave…
Written when the Author was sick. Somnus, pow’rful Deity, Mortals owe their Bliss to thee. How long shall I thy Absence mour… And when be bless’d in thy Return…
As in some wealthy, trading Town, Where Riches raise to fure Renown… The Man, with ample Sums in Stor… More than enough, yet wanting more… Bent on Abundance, first secures
How I succeed, you kindly ask; Yet set me on a grievous Task, When you oblige me to rehearse, The Censures past upon my Verse. Tho’ I with Pleasure may relate,
A Curious Statue, we are told, Is priz’d above its Weight in Gol… If the fair Form the Hand confess Of Phidias, or Praxiteles: But if the Artist could inspire
Where—e’er you go, some Actions s… Which make the Goodness of your M… Hibernia early saw those Seeds of… In your fair Breast, which now sh… Foresaw the Hopes you gave, matur…
When lately you acquitted me, With Carteret I din’d; And, in Return, (tho’ grievous) t… To Onslow I resign’d. ’Tis wise the happy Hour to seize…
When I heard you were landed, I f… Intreating their Aid to invite yo… They told me, I came on that Erra… For you were engag’d by the Rich,… Already! said I; they were speedy…
A mother, who vast Pleasure finds In modelling her Childrens Minds; With whom, in exquisite Delight, She passes many a Winter Night; Mingles in ev’ry Play, to find
OUR master, in a fatal hour, Brought in this Rod, to shew his… O dreadful birch! O baleful tree! Thou instrument of tyranny! Thou deadly damp to youthful joys!
Your late kind Gift let me restor… For I must never wear it more. My Mother cries, 'What’s here to… ‘A Crimson Velvet Cap for you! ’If to these Heights so soon you…
Madam, I hear, and hear with Sorr… That we’re to lose Your Grace To… Nor you alone, but Lady Di. Where, thus deserted, shall I fly… Am I condemn’d to live in Pain,
How gladly, Madam, would I go, To see your Gardens, and Chateau; From thence the fine Improvements… Or walk your verdant Avenue; Delighted, hear the Thrushes sing…
Celia, when you oblige again. Subdue that haughty Eye: Rather than Insolence fustain, Who would not wish to die? A grateful Heart will own the Deb…
