#EnglishWriters
By Sylvia if thy charming self be… If friendship be thy virgin vows’… O! let me in Aminta’s praises joi… Hers my esteem shall be, my passio… When for thy head the garland I p…
O Death how thou spoil’st the bes… Said Gabriel, who still as he bur… For the sake of her family married… And thus in an honest collateral l… He still married on till his numbe…
Wiessen and nature held a long con… If she created or he painted best; With pleasing thought the wondrous… She still form’d fairer, he still… In these seven brethren they conte…
Hans Carvel, impotent and old, Married a lass of London mould. Handsome? Enough; extremely gay; Loved music, company, and play: High flights she had, and wit at w…
Apollo. Abate, fair fugitive, abate thy sp… Dismiss thy fears, and turn thy be… With kind regard a panting lover v… Less swiftly fly, less swiftly I’…
But shall we take the Muse abroad… To drop her idly on the road, And leave our subject in the middl… As Butler did his Bear and Fiddl… Yet he, consummate master, knew
While blooming youth and gay delig… Sit on thy rosy cheeks confess’d, Thou hast, my dear, undoubted righ… To triumph o’er this destined brea… My reason bends to what thy eyes o…
Forgive the muse who, in unhallow’… The saint one moment from his God… For sure whate’er you do, where’er… ’Tis all but one good work, one co… Forgive her; and entreat that God…
Haste, my Nannette, My lovely maid, Haste to the bower Thy swain has made. For thee alone
Come, weep no more, for ’tis in va… Torment not thus your pretty heart… Think, Flavia, we may meet again, As well as that we now must part. You sigh and weep; the gods neglec…
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,
From publick Noise and factious S… From all the busie Ills of Life, Take me, My Celia, to Thy Breast… And lull my wearied Soul to Rest: For ever, in this humble Cell,
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
While cruel Nero only drains The moral Spaniard’s ebbing veins… By study worn, and slack with age, How dull, how thoughtless is his r… Heighten’d revenge he should have…
Morella, charming without art, And kind without design, Can never lose the smallest part Of such a heart as mine. Obliged a thousand several ways,