Hither, amongst the Crouds, that… The smoaky Town, and sultry Sun, In cooling Springs to seek for He… Or throw away superfluous Wealth, A Native of Hibernia came,

And will your Goodness never have… And will you still persist to be m… To meet me still with that engagin… Still open, ardent, gen’rous, and… Still to advise, to aid, to cheer,…

Might I inquire the Reasons of my… Or with my Maker dare expostulate… Did I, in prosp’rous Days, despis… Or drive the friendless Stranger… Was not my Soul pour’d out for th…

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…

Whilst Gay’s unhappy Fate thy Ea… Thy Heart, indignant, scorns his… Thy gen’rous Heart, which never l… A Friend or to deceive, or to bet… With Honour and Integrity so bles…

An Epigram You cry, She’s bred in the Old W… Then into Laughter fall: Were she as just to you, she’d say… You are not bred at all.

All—bounteous Heav’n, Castalio cr… With bended Knees, and lifted Eye… When shall I have the Pow’r to bl… And raise up Merit in Distress? How do our Hearts deceive us here…

A sight like this, who can unmov’d… Impartial Muse, can’st thou with—… See the freed Captives hail their… And tread the Land of Liberty onc… See, as they pass, the crouding P…

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!

’Tis said, for ev’ry common Grief The Muses can afford Relief: And, surely, on that heav’nly Tra… A Boyle can never call in vain. Then strait invoke the sacred Nin…

Since Phoebus makes your Verse di… Since the God glows in ev’ry Line… Why should you think, but I, with… Might write my native, artless La… My Mother told me many a Time,

We of late had a terrible Rout in… If I happen’d to speak, I was sur… My Mamma had the Tooth—ach, and… O Steel, I for ever will yalue th… Both Children, and Servants, to t…

My Lord of Killala, I find to my… I can’t have the Honour I hop’d f… But why I’m so wretched, my Frien… For I never can write my Vexation… Disappointments are sent to poor…

I beg your Scholar you’ll excuse, Who dares no more debase the Muse… My Mother says, If e’er she hears… I write again on worthless Peers, Whether they’re living Lords, or…

Start not, nor tremble at the Sig… It comes not written from the Rea… ’Tis true, you see, your once—lov’… Thence may conclude from Heav’n s… Conscious perhaps of your celestia…