#EnglishWriters
Farewell, Amynta, we must part; The charm has lost its power Which held so fast my captived hea… Until this fatal hour. Hadst thou not thus my love abused…
Ovid is the surest guide You can name to show the way To any woman, maid, or bride, Who resolves to go astray.
While from our looks, fair nymph,… The secret passions of our mind; My heavy eyes, you say, confess A heart to love and grief inclined… There needs, alas! but little art
Dum studeo fungi fallentis munere… Adfectoque viam sedibus Elysiis Arctoa florens sophia, Samiisque… Discipulis, animas morte carere ca… Has ego corporibus profugas ad sid…
Haste, my Nannette, My lovely maid, Haste to the bower Thy swain has made. For thee alone
Tway Mice, full Blythe and Amica… Batten beside Erle Robert’s Tabl… Lies there ne Trap their Necks to… Ne old black Cat their Steps to w… Their Fill they eat of Fowl and…
Is it, O love, thy want of eyes, Or by the Fates decreed, That hearts so seldom sympathise, Or for each other bleed? If thou wouldst make two youthful…
The merchant, to secure his treasu… Conveys it in a borrowed name: Euphelia serves to grace my measur… But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre
Some kind angel, gently flying, Moved with pity at my pain, Tell Corinna I am dying Till with joy we meet again. Tell Corinna, since we parted
The merchant, to secure his treasu… Conveys it in a borrow’d name: Euphelia serves to grace my measur… But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Dear Cloe, how blubber’d is that… Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hai… Pr’ythee quit this caprice; and (a… Let us e’en talk a little like fol… How can’st thou presume, thou hast…
To the tune of King John and the… Who has e’er been at Paris must n… The fatal retreat of th’ unfortuna… Where honour and justice most oddl… To ease heroes’ pains by a halter…
Soft Cupid, wanton, amorous boy, The other day, moved with my lyre, In flattering accents spoke his jo… And uttered thus his fond desire. Oh! raise thy voice, one song I a…
I sent for Ratcliffe, was so ill, That other doctors gave me over, He felt my pulse, prescribed his p… And I was likely to recover. But when the wit began to wheeze,
The bewailing of man’s miseries hath been elegantly and copiously set forth by many, in the writings as well of philosophers as divines; and it is both a pleasant and a profitable conte...