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…

Why are we Scholars plagu’d to wr… On Days devoted to Delight? In Honour of the King, I’d play Upon his Coronation Day: But as for Loyalty in Rhyme,

Return, brave Youth! suspend thy… Nor, like great Berwick, in the F… Illustrious Exile! thou art gone… Thy Toils, and various Dangers no… The royal Blood, which flow’d in…

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…

Say, my Hortensia, in this silent… When the pale Queen of Night exer… What Guardian—Angels on thy Slum… To paint the Glories of thy futur… To shew what Mansions, in the Rea…

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…

So Ceres, lovely and divine, Eager to see her Proserpine, Blessing the Nations as she pass’… Reach’d the fell Tyrant’s Court a… Around her shot a Gleam of Light,

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…

Remote from Strife, from urban Th… Here dwells my Soul amidst domest… No ratling Coaches serious Though… Nor busy prating Fools my Peace d… Wrapt up in all the Sweets of rur…

The Picture strikes—'tis drawn wi… Well has the Poet play’d the Pain… Tho’ ’tis your Glory, yet, my Lor… I grieve the Features fit yoursel… But know, tho’ All agree the Pict…

When Ruin threaten’d me of late, With all its ghastly Train; Some Pow’r, in Pity to my Fate, Sent bountiful Germain, Her Soul is mov’d with my Distres…

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…

Obrian, were in Story told, Thy Ancestors wore Crowns of old: In fair Hibernia’s Isle they reig… A Country, by their Sons disdain’… Too apt to charge their Native Is…

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…

Ye gentle Beaux, and thoughtless… Who gaily rove at Tunbridge—Wells… With Pockets full; and empty Look… Raffling for ev’ry Toy—but Books: Should Addison’s immortal Page