#IrishWriters
I with borrow’d silver shine What you see is none of mine. First I show you but a quarter, Like the bow that guards the Tart… Then the half, and then the whole,
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…
ON RAINY days alone I dine Upon a chick and pint of wine. On rainy days I dine alone And pick my chicken to the bone; But this my servants much enrages,
A WONDERFUL age Is now on the stage: I’ll sing you a song, if I can, How modern Whigs, Dance forty-one jigs,
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.
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
I’m wealthy and poor, I’m empty and full, I’m humble and proud, I’m witty and dull. I’m foul and yet fair:
As, when a lofty pile is raised, We never hear the workmen praised, Who bring the lime, or place the s… But all admire Inigo Jones: So, if this pile of scattered rhym…
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…
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,
Stella this Day is thirty four, (We shan’t dispute a Year or more… However Stella, be not troubled, Although thy Size and Years are d… Since first I saw Thee at Sixtee…
Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane, For whom no Shepherd sighs in vai… Never did Covent Garden boast So bright a batter’d, strolling T… No drunken Rake to pick her up,
Dingley and Brent, Wherever they went, Ne’er minded a word that was spoke… Whatever was said, They ne’er troubled their head,
Desponding Phillis was endu’d With ev’ry Talent of a Prude, She trembled when a Man drew near… Salute her, and she turn’d her Ea… If o’er against her you were plac’…
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