#EnglishWriters
Lysander talks extremely well; On any subject let him dwell His tropes and figures will conten… He should possess to all degrees The art of talk; he practises
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…
As Nancy at her toilette sat, Admiring this, and blaming that, Tell me, she said, but tell me tru… The nymph who could your heart sub… What sort of charms does she posse…
Fire, Water, Woman, are Man’s Ru… Says wise Professor Vander Bruin… By Flames a House I hir’d was lo… Last Year: and I must pay the Co… This Spring the Rains o’erflow’d…
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,
In vain you tell your parting love… You wish fair winds may waft him o… Alas! what winds can happy prove That bear me far from what I love… Alas! what dangers on the main
Tune. - ‘King John and the Abbot… I sing not old Jason who travell’… To kiss the fair maids and possess… Nor sing I AEneas, who, led by h… Got rid of one wife and went far f…
Phillis, this pious talk give o’er… And modesty pretend no more, It is too plain an art: Surely you take me for a fool, And would by this prove me so dull
To me ’twas given to die; to thee… To live: alas! one moment sets us… Mark! how impartial is the will of…
Let others from the Town retire, And in the fields seek new delight… My Phillis does such joys inspire… No other objects please my sight. In her alone I find whate’er
You, Madam, may, with safety go Decrees of destiny to know; For at your birth kind planets rei… And certain happiness ordain’d: Such charms as yours are only give…
Say, sire of insects, mighty Sol, (A fly upon the chariot-pole Cries out) What blue-bottle alive Did ever with such fury drive? Tell Beelzebub, great Father, tel…
Accept, my Love, as true a heart As ever lover gave; ’Tis free (it vows) from my art, And proud to be your slave. Then take it kindly, as ’twas mean…
Tune - 'Lady Isabella’s Tragedy.… Of Nero, tyrant, petty king, Who heretofore did reign In famed Hibernia, I will sing, And in a ditty plain.
Whither would my passion run? Shall I fly her, or pursue her? Losing her I am undone, Yet would not gain her to undo her… Ye tyrants of the human breast,