What charms you have, from what hi… Have been the pleasing subjects of… Unskill’d and young, yet something… Of Ca’ndish’ beauty, join’d to Ce… But when you please to show the la…

Strephonetta, why d’ye fly me, With such rigour in your eyes: Oh! ’tis cruel to deny me, Since your charms I so much prize… But I plainly see the reason

Reading ends in melancholy, Wine breeds vices and diseases, Wealth is but care, and love but f… Only friendship truly pleases. My wealth, my books, my flask, my…

Cloe beauty has, and wit, And an air that is not common; Every charm in her does meet, Fit to make a handsome woman. But we do not only find

I know that Fortune long has want… And therefore pardon’d when she di… But yet till then it never did app… That, as she wanted eyes, she coul… I begg’d that she would give me le…

I, MY dear, was born to-day— So all my jolly comrades say: They bring me music, wreaths, and… And ask to celebrate my birth: Little, alas! my comrades know

Ma petite ame, ma mignonne, Tu t’en vas donc, máfille, et Die… Tu pars seulette, nuë, et tremblo… Que deviendra ton humeur folichonn… Que deviendront tant de jolis ébat…

Nanny blushes when I woo her, And with kindly chiding eyes Faintly says I shall undo her; Faintly, O, forbear! she cries. But her breasts while I am pressi…

Prometheus, forming Mr. Day, Carved something like a man in cla… The mortal’s work might well misca… He that does heaven and earth cont… Has only power to form a soul;

Since, Moggy, I mun bid adieu, How can I help despairing? Let cruel Fate us still pursue, There’s nought more worth my carin… ’Twas she alone could calm my soul

My Lord, Our weekly friends to-morrow meet At Matthew’s palace in Duke-stree… To try for once if they can dine On bacon-ham and mutton-chine.

What can I say? What Arguments c… My Truth? What Colors can descri… If it’s Excess and Fury be not kn… In what Thy Celia has already don… Thy Infant Flames, whilst yet the…

Yes, every poet is a fool; By demonstration, Ned can show it… Happy could Ned’s inverted rule Prove every fool to be a poet.

Haste, my Nannette, My lovely maid, Haste to the bower Thy swain has made. For thee alone

Frank carves very ill, yet will pa… He eats more than six, and drinks… Four pipes after dinner he constan… And seasons his whiffs with impert… Yet sighing, he says we must certa…