#EnglishWriters
Lovely Armina, o’er her Books rec… Impairs her Body, to improve her… Of Wisdom fond, as others are of… In that Pursuit will sacrifice he… Then, Miser—like, when she has ga…
See, in the Temple rais’d by Harl… His beauteous Off—spring at the A… There Mortimer resigns his darlin… To happy Portland gives the bloom… Where had the Parent’s Pray’r lik…
Should you employ your Ridicule, On those who Pity claim? Think, Birtha, is the native Fool For Wit a proper Theme? On Vice your hum’rous Vein displa…
O thou, with ev’ry Virtue grac’d, Adorn’d with Wit, and Sense, and… Who, with a Goodness unconfin’d, Delight’st in blessing human Kind… Whose Woes so oft thy Peace destr…
So little giv’n at Chapel Door!— This People doubtless must be poo… So much at Gaming thrown away!— No Nation sure so rich as they. Britons, ’twere greatly for your…
Hither, amongst the Crouds, that… The smoaky Town, and sultry Sun, In cooling Springs to seek for He… Or throw away superfluous Wealth, A Native of Hibernia came,
Start not, nor tremble at the Sig… It comes not written from the Rea… ’Tis true, you see, your once—lov’… Thence may conclude from Heav’n s… Conscious perhaps of your celestia…
When you command, the Muse obeys, Proud to present her humble Lays. Of writing I’ll no more repent, Nor think my Time unwisely spent; If Verse the Happiness procures
Why are we Scholars plagu’d to wr… On Days devoted to Delight? In Honour of the King, I’d play Upon his Coronation Day: But as for Loyalty in Rhyme,
When lately you acquitted me, With Carteret I din’d; And, in Return, (tho’ grievous) t… To Onslow I resign’d. ’Tis wise the happy Hour to seize…
Fair Innocence, the Muses lovelic… On Acts of Mercy sound thy rising… Let others from frail Beauty hope… Plead thou the Fatherless, and Wi… Fly to your Mother; let each winn…
An Epigram You cry, She’s bred in the Old W… Then into Laughter fall: Were she as just to you, she’d say… You are not bred at all.
My Lord of Killala, I find to my… I can’t have the Honour I hop’d f… But why I’m so wretched, my Frien… For I never can write my Vexation… Disappointments are sent to poor…
When Ruin threaten’d me of late, With all its ghastly Train; Some Pow’r, in Pity to my Fate, Sent bountiful Germain, Her Soul is mov’d with my Distres…
Might I inquire the Reasons of my… Or with my Maker dare expostulate… Did I, in prosp’rous Days, despis… Or drive the friendless Stranger… Was not my Soul pour’d out for th…