How happy he, who free from care The rage of courts, and noise of t… Contented breaths his native air, In his own grounds. II.
In that soft season, when descendi… Call forth the greens, and wake th… When op’ning buds salute the welco… And earth relenting feels the geni… As balmy sleep had charm’d my care…
Here, shunning idleness at once an… This radiant pile nine rural siste… The glittering emblem of each spot… Clear as her soul and shining as h… Beauty which nature only can impar…
Authors the world and their dull b… To fix the ground where Paradise… Mind not their learned whims and i… Here, here’s the place where these…
Shut, shut the door, good John! f… Tie up the knocker, say I’m sick,… The dog—star rages! nay 'tis past… All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let… Fire in each eye, and papers in ea…
Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose field…
Ye shades, where sacred truth is s… Groves, where immortal Sages taug… Where heav’nly visions of Plato f… And Epicurus lay inspir’d! In vain your guiltless laurels sto…
He said, and pass’d with sad presa… To seek his spouse, his soul’s far… At home he sought her, but he soug… She, with one maid of all her meni… Had thence retir’d; and, with her…
Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of… Indulge, dread Chaos, and eternal… Of darkness visible so much be len… As half to show, half veil, the de… Ye pow’rs! whose mysteries restor’…
Of Manners gentle, of Affections… In Wit, a Man; Simplicity, a Chi… With native Humour temp’ring virt… Form’d to delight at once and lash… Above Temptation, in a low Estate…
Parson, these things in thy posses… Are better than the Bishop’s bles… A Wife that makes conserves; a St… That carries double when there’s n… October store, and best Virginia,
Thou art my God, sole object of m… Not for the hope of endless joys a… Nor for the fear of endless pains… Which they who love thee not must… For me, and such as me, thou deign…
Flutt’ring spread thy purple Pini… Gentle Cupid, o’er my Heart; I a Slave in thy Dominions; Nature must give Way to Art. II.
But anxious cares the pensive nymp… And secret passions labour’d in he… Not youthful kings in battle seiz’… Not scornful virgins who their cha… Not ardent lovers robb’d of all th…
Lycidas. Thyrsis, the music of that murm’ri… Is not so mournful as the strains… Nor rivers winding thro’ the vales… So sweetly warble, or so smoothly…