#IrishWriters
The Dean would visit Market-Hill… Our invitation was but slight; I said ‘Why let him, if he will:’ And so I bade Sir Arthur write. His manners would not let him wait…
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…
Ever eating, never cloying, All-devouring, all-destroying, Never finding full repast, Till I eat the world at last.
Aetatis suae fifty-two, A rich Divine began to woo A handsome young imperious girl, Nearly related to an Earl. Her parents and her friends consen…
Poor Hall, renown’d for comely ha… Whose hands, perhaps, were not so… Yet had a Jezebel as near; Hall, of small scripture conversat… Yet, howe’er Hungerford’s quotati…
As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew From Nature, I believe ‘em true: They argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault is in mankind. This maxim more than all the rest
From distant regions Fortune send… An odd triumvirate of friends; Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipe… Where never yet a codling ripen’d: Hither the frantic goddess draws
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…
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…
Sure never did man see A wretch like poor Nancy, So teazed day and night By a Dean and a Knight. To punish my sins,
Here lies the Earl of Suffolk’s f… Men call’d him Dicky Pearce; His folly served to make folks lau… When wit and mirth were scarce. Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone…
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,
An orator dismal of Nottinghamshi… Who has forty years let out his co… Out of zeal for his country, and w… Is come up, vi et armis, to break… He has vamp’d an old speech, and t…
I am jet black, as you may see, The son of pitch and gloomy night: Yet all that know me will agree, I’m dead except I live in light. Sometimes in panegyric high,
Ye poets ragged and forlorn, Down from your garrets haste; Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, Not yet consign’d to paste; I know a trick to make you thrive;