#IrishWriters
From Heaven I fall, though from e… No lady alive can show such a skin… I’m bright as an angel, and light… But heavy and dark, when you squee… Though candour and truth in my asp…
We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and feature… One of us in glass is set, One of us you’ll find in jet. T’other you may see in tin,
The joy of man, the pride of brute… Domestic subject for disputes, Of plenty thou the emblem fair, Adorn’d by nymphs with all their c… I saw thee raised to high renown,
Harley, the nation’s great support… Returning home one day from court, His mind with public cares possest… All Europe’s business in his brea… Observed a parson near Whitehall,
To the Priest, on Observing how m… When beasts could speak (the learn… They still can do so ev’ry day), It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men.
Begotten, and born, and dying with… The terror of women, and pleasure… Like the fiction of poets concerni… I’m chiefly unruly when strongest… For silver and gold I don’t troub…
If, dearest Dismal, you for once… Upon a single dish, and tavern win… Toland to you this invitation send… To eat the calfs head with your tr… Suspend awhile your vain ambitious…
Charming oysters I cry: My masters, come buy, So plump and so fresh, So sweet is their flesh, No Colchester oyster
At Market-Hill, as well appears By chronicle of ancient date, There stood for many hundred years A spacious thorn before the gate. Hither came every village maid,
When Naboth’s vineyard look’d so… The king cried out, ‘Would this w… And yet no reason could prevail To bring the owner to a sale. Jezebel saw, with haughty pride,
Of all inhabitants on earth, To man alone I owe my birth, And yet the cow, the sheep, the be… Are all my parents more than he: I, a virtue, strange and rare,
Dingley and Brent, Wherever they went, Ne’er minded a word that was spoke… Whatever was said, They ne’er troubled their head,
LET me thy properties explain: A rotten cabin dropping rain: Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smo… Stools, tables, chairs, and bedste… Here elements have lost their uses…
There is a gate, we know full well… That stands 'twixt Heaven, and Ea… Where many for a passage venture, Yet very few are fond to enter: Although ’tis open night and day,
Tormented with incessant pains, Can I devise poetic strains? Time was, when I could yearly pay My verse to Stella’s native day: But now unable grown to write,