#IrishWriters
Robin to beggars with a curse, Throws the last shilling in his pu… And when the coachman comes for pa… The rogue must call another day. Grave Harry, when the poor are pr…
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,
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.
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,
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…
In youth exalted high in air, Or bathing in the waters fair, Nature to form me took delight, And clad my body all in white. My person tall, and slender waist,
Frail glass! thou mortal art as we… Though none can tell which of us f…
The Dean would visit Market-hill; Our invitation was but slight; I said’why’Let him if he will… And so I bid Sir Arthur write. His manners would not let him wait…
Ah! Strephon, how can you despise Her, who without thy pity dies! To Strephon I have still been tru… And of as noble blood as you; Fair issue of the genial bed,
All-ruling tyrant of the earth, To vilest slaves I owe my birth, How is the greatest monarch blest, When in my gaudy livery drest! No haughty nymph has power to run
Deprived of root, and branch and r… Yet flowers I bear of every kind: And such is my prolific power, They bloom in less than half an ho… Yet standers-by may plainly see
Never sleeping, still awake, Pleasing most when most I speak; The delight of old and young, Though I speak without a tongue. Nought but one thing can confound…
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…
All folks who pretend to religion… Allow there’s a HELL, but disput… But, if HELL may by logical rule… The place of the damned –I’ll tel… Wherever the damned do chiefly abo…
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;