#IrishWriters
Let me thy Properties explain, A rotten Cabin, dropping Rain; Chimnies with Scorn rejecting Smo… Stools, Tables, Chairs, and Bed-… Here Elements have lost their Vse…
Her dead lady’s joy and comfort, Who departed this life The last day of March, 1727: To the great joy of Bryan That his antagonist is gone.
FROM Venus born, thy beauty show… But who thy father, no man knows: Nor can the skilful herald trace The founder of thy ancient race; Whether thy temper, full of fire,
From London to Exon, By special direction, Came down the world’s wonder, Sir Salathiel Blunder, With a quoif on his head
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,
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…
The Thresher Duck, could o’er the… The Proverb says; No Fence again… From threshing Corn, he turns to… For which Her My allows him Grai… Though ’tis confess’t, that those…
Now hardly here and there a hackne… Appearing, show’d the ruddy morn’s… Now Betty from her master’s bed h… And softly stole to discompose her… The slip-shod 'prentice from his m…
To their Excellencies the Lords… The humble petition of Frances Ha… Who must starve and die a maid if… Humble sheweth, that I went to wa… was cold;
Daphne knows, with equal ease, How to vex, and how to please; But the folly of her sex Makes her sole delight to vex. Never woman more devised
On Britain Europe’s safety lies, Britain is lost if Harley dies: Harley depends upon your skill: Think what you save, or what you k…
Come hither, and behold the fruits… Vain man! of all thy vain pursuits… Take wise advice, and look behind, Bring all past actions to thy mind… Here you may see, as in a glass,
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…
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,
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