Blessed Light of saints on high Who fill the mansions of the sky, Sure defence, whose mercy still Preserves thy subjects here from i… O my Jesus! make me know

From the bleak Beach and broad ex… To lofty Salem, Thought direct th… Mount thy light chariot, move alon… And end thy flight where Hezekiah… How swiftly thought has pass’d fro…

The Man whose Judgement Joynd wi… The lives of Popes & lives of… Who sung true Pleasure showd ye G… And taught Wild Youth to shun ye… Who wrote all this—Who more than…

From Town fair Arabella flies, The Beaux unpowder’d grieve, The Rivers play before her eyes, The Breezes softly breathing rise The Spring begins to live.

Grant heav’n that I may chuse my… If you design me worldly Happines… Tis not Honour thats but air Glory has but fancied light Fame as oft speak’s false as right

Beauty rests not in one fix’d Pla… But seems to reign in every Face; ’Tis nothing sure, but Fancy then… In various Forms bewitching Men; Or is it Shape and Colour fram’d,

A Beavy of the fair & Gay, Such as are daily Smoakt in tea, & toasted over wine, Vext to be made so long the Jeast Of tongues & pens, to go in qu…

Where Creditors their bankrupt de… Where men for want of coin to dura… & are for being wretched made… Where poor W—G—could months abide When all his creditt would not him…

Urg’d by the warmth of Friendship… But more by all the glories of thy… By all those offsprings of thy lea… In judgment solid, as in wit refin… Resolv’d I sing: Tho’ lab’ring up…

Compassion checks my spleen, yet… The tears a passage thro’ my swell… To laugh or weep at sins, might id… Unheedful passion, or unfruitful w… Satyr! arise, and try thy sharper…

When ore my temples balmy vapours… Whose soft suffusion dims the sink… Gay dreams in troops fantastically… On silent plumes wave down through… Nights sable curtains draw before…

The beam-repelling mists arise, And evening spreads obscurer skies… The twilight will the night foreru… And night itself be soon begun. Upon thy knees devoutly bow,

With kind compassion hear my cry O Jesu, Lord of life, on high! As when the Summer’s seasons beat With scorching flame and parching… The trees are burnt, the flowers f…

One authour has anothers head begu… Lett no man say it might be better… For since they both are Witts Ime… To find he has not drawn him twice…

Upon a Bed of humble clay In all her Garments loose A Prostitute my Mother lay To ev’ry Comer’s use. ‘Till one Gallant in heat of love