Lines Written in Windsor Park
By Charles Churchill

When Pope to Satire gave its lawful way,
And made the Nimrods of Mankind his prey;
When haughty Windsor heard through every wood
Their shame, who durst be great, yet not be good;
Who, drunk with power, and with ambition blind,
Slaves to themselves, and monsters to mankind,
Sinking the man, to magnify the prince,
Were heretofore, what Stuarts have been since:
Could he have look’d into the womb of Time,
How might his spirit in prophetic rhyme,
Inspired by virtue, and for freedom bold,
Matters of different import have foretold!
How might his Muse, if any Muse’s tongue
Could equal such an argument, have sung
One William, who makes all mankind his care,
And shines the saviour of his country there!
One William, who to every heart gives law;
The son of George, the image of Nassau!

Here’s the poem poem below if you wish to read along.

Ode to Beauty

Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold,
But the ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm;
Besides I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in Heaven will never do well.

But if at the church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We’d sing and we’d pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the church to stray.

PilkingtonSorrow

Gray On a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes read by Alyssa Hellman

A Cradle Song

“The Complaint” by Mark Akenside

Source: UMW

Away! Away!
Tempt me no more, insidious love:
Thy soothing sway
Long did my youthful bosom prove:
At length thy treason is discern’d,
At length some dear-bought caution earn’d:
Away! nor hope my riper age to move.

I know, I see
Her merit . Needs it now be shewn,
Alas, to me?
How often, to myself unknown,
The graceful, gentle, virtuous maid
Have I admir’d!  How often said,
What joy to call a heart like her’s one’s own!

But, flattering god,
O squanderer of content and ease,
In thy abode
Will care’s rude lesson learn to please?
O say, deceiver, hast thou won,
Proud fortune to attend thy throne,
Or plac’d thy friends above her stern decrees?

Source: http://www.bartleby.com/101/462.html

GRAND-DAD , they say you’re old and frail,
Your stiffened legs begin to fail:
Your staff, no more my pony now,
Supports your body bending low,
While back to wall you lean so sad,
I’m vex’d to see you, Dad.

You used to smile and stroke my head,
And tell me how good children did;
But now, I wot not how it be,
You take me seldom on your knee,
Yet ne’ertheless I am right glad,
To sit beside you, Dad.

How lank and thin your beard hangs down!
Scant are the white hairs on your crown:
How wan and hollow are your cheeks,
Your brow is crossed with many streaks;
But yet although his strength be fled,
I love my own old Dad.

The housewives round their potions brew,
And gossips come to ask for you;
And for your weal each neighbour cares;
And good men kneel and say their prayers,
And every body looks so sad,
When you are ailing, Dad.

You will not die and leave us then?
Rouse up and be our Dad again.
When you are quiet and laid in bed,
We’ll doff our shoes and softly tread;
And when you wake we’ll still be near,
To fill old Dad his cheer.

When through the house you change your stand,
I’ll lead you kindly by the hand:
When dinner’s set I’ll with you bide,
And aye be serving by your side;
And when the weary fire burns blue,
I’ll sit and talk with you.

I have a tale both long and good,
About a partlet and her brood,
And greedy cunning fox that stole
By dead of midnight through a hole,
Which slyly to the hen-roost led,–
You love a story, Dad?

And then I have a wondrous tale
Of men all clad in coats of mail,
With glittering swords,–you nod,–I think
Your heavy eyes begin to wink;–
Down on your bosom sinks your head:–
You do not hear me, Dad.

-Joanna Baille, 1790

(From the Nex Oxford Book of Eighteenth Century Verse)

Sonnet To The Curlew by Helen Maria Williams

SOOTH’D by the murmurs on the sea-beat shore,

His dun-grey plumage floating to the gale,

The Curlew blends his melancholy wail

With those hoarse sounds the rushing waters pour.

Like thee, congenial bird! my steps explore

The bleak lone sea-beach, or the rocky dale,–

And shun the orange bower, the myrtle vale,

Whose gay luxuriance suits my soul no more.

I love the ocean’s broad expanse, when drest

In limpid clearness, or when tempests blow:

When the smooth currents on its placid breast

Flow calm, as my past moments us’d to flow;

Or when its troubled waves refuse to rest,

And seem the symbol of my present woe.

Sonnet to Twilight by Helen Maria Williams

Meek Twilight! soften the declining day,

And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves;

When o’er the mountain slow descends the ray

That gives to silence and to night the groves.

Ah, let the happy court the morning still,

When, in her blooming loveliness arrayed,

She bids fresh beauty light the vale or hill,

And rapture warble in the vocal shade.

Sweet is the odour of the morning’s flower,

And rich in melody her accents rise;

Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour

At which her blossoms close, her music dies:

For then, while languid Nature droops her head,

She wakes the tear ’tis luxury to shed.

Epilogue to the Tragedy of Cato

A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk 
by Robert Burns

A Rose-bud by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o’ dawn are fled,
In a’ its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.

Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o’ the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew’d,
Awake the early morning.

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents thy early morning.
So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent’s evening ray
That watch’d thy early morning.

“Ode to the Poppy” by Henrietta O’Neill

Not for the promise of the labour’d field,
Not for the good the yellow harvests yield,
I bend at Ceres’ shrine;
For dull, to human eyes, appear
The golden glories of the year,
Alas!–a melancholy worship’s mine.

I hail the goddess for her scarlet flower!
Thou brilliant weed,
That does so far exceed
The richest gifts gay Flora can bestow:
Heedless I pass’d thee, in life’s morning hour,
Thou comforter of woe,
Till sorrow taught me to confess thy power.

In early days, when Fancy cheats,
A varied wreath I wove
Of laughing Spring’s luxuriant sweets,
To deck ungrateful Love:
The rose, or thorn, my labours crown’d,
As Venus smiled, or Venus frown’d;

But Love and Joy, and all their train, are flown;
E’en languid Hope no more is mine,
And I will sing of thee alone,
Unless, perchance, the attributes of Grief,
The cypress bud, and willow leaf,
Their pale funereal foliage blend with thine.

Hail, lovely blossom!–thou canst ease
The wretched victims of Disease;
Canst close those weary eyes in gentle sleep,
Which never open but to weep;
For, oh! thy potent charm
Can agonizing Pain disarm;
Expel imperious Memory from her seat,
And bid the throbbing heart forget to beat.

Soul-soothing plant! that can such blessings give,
By thee the mourner bears to live!
By thee the hopeless die!
Oh! ever ‘friendly to despair,’
Might Sorrow’s pallid votary dare,
Without a crime, that remedy implore,
Which bids the spirit from its bondage fly,
I’d court thy palliative aid no more;

No more I’d sue that thou shouldst spread,
Thy spell around my aching head,
But would conjure thee to impart
Thy balsam for a broken heart;
And by thy soft Lethean power,
Inestimable flower,
Burst these terrestrial bonds, and other regions try.

So many years I’ve seen the sun,

And called these eyes and hands my own,

A thousand little acts I’ve done,

And childhood have and manhood known:

O what is life? on this dull round

To tread, why was a spirit bound?

So many airy draughts and lines,

And warm excursions of the mind,

Have filled my soul with great designs,

While practice groveled far behind:

O what is thought? and were withdraw

The glories which my fancy saw?

So many tender joys and woes

Have on my quivering soul had power;

Plain life with height’ning passions rose,

The boast or burden of their hour:

O what is all we feel? Why fled

Those pains and pleasures o’er my head?

So many human souls divine,

so at one interview displayed,

Some oft and freely mixed with mine,

In lasting bonds my heart have laid:

O what is friendship? why impressed

On my weak, wretched, dying breast?

So many wondrous gleams of light,

And gentle ardours from above,

Have made me sit, like seraph bright,

Some moments on a throne of love:

O what is virtue? why had I,

Who am so low, a taste so high?

Ere long, when sovereign Wisdom wills,

My soul an unknown path shall tread,

And strangely leave, who strangely fills

This frame, and waft me to the dead:

O what is death? ’tis life’s last shore,

Where vanities are vain no more;

Where all pursuits their goal obtain,

And life is all retouched again;

Where in their bright result shall rise

Thoughts, virtues, friendships, griefs and joys.

Hammon Thoughts on Death

A Poem For Children With Thoughts On Death

O ye young and thoughtless youth,
Come seek the living God,
The scriptures are a sacred truth,
Ye must believe the word.

Tis God alone can make you wise,
His wisdom’s from above,
He fills the soul with sweet supplies
By his redeeming love.

Remember youth the time is short,
Improve the present day And pray that God may guide your thoughts,
and teach your lips to pray.

To pray unto the most high God,
and beg restraining grace,
Then by the power of his word
You’l see the Saviour’s face.

Little children they may die,
Turn to their native dust,
Their souls shall leap beyond the skies,
and live among the just

Like little worms they turn and crawl,
and gasp for every breath,
The blessed Jesus sends his call,
and takes them to his rest.

Thus the youth are born to die,
The time is hastening on,
The Blessed Jesus rends the sky,
and makes his power known.

Then ye shall hear the angels sing
The trumpet give a sound,
Glory, glory to our King,
The Saviour’s coming down.5

Start ye Saints from dusty beds,
and hear a Saviour call,
Twas Jesus Christ that died and bled,
and thus preserv’d thy soul.

This the portion of the just,
Who lov’d to serve the Lord,
Their bodies starting from the dust,
Shall rest upon their God.

They shall join that holy word,
That angels constant sing,
Glory glory to the Lord,
Hallelujahs to our King.

Thus the Saviour will appear,
With guards of heavenly host,
Those blessed Saints, shall then declare,
Tis Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

Then shall ye hear the trumpet sound,
The graves give up their dead,
Those blessed saints shall quick awake,
and leave their dusty beds.

Then shall you hear the trumpet sound,
and rend the native sky,
Those bodies starting from the ground,
In the twinkling of an eye.

There to sing the praise of God,
and join the angelic train,
And by the power of his word,
Unite together again.

Where angels stand for to admit
Their souls at the first word,
Cast sceptres down at Jesus feet
Crying holy holy Lord.

Now glory be unto our God
all praise be justly given,
Ye humble souls that love the Lord
Come seek the joys of Heaven.

Jupiter Hammon

Source: UMW

Retaliation: A Poem

OFF2

The Shrubbery

The Shrubbery

By William Cowper 1731–1800 William Cowper

WHEN from the craggy mountain’s pathless steep,
Whose flinty brow hangs o’er the raging sea,
My wand’ring eye beholds the foamy deep,
I mark the restless surge­and think of THEE.
The curling waves, the passing breezes move,
Changing and treach’rous as the breath of LOVE;
The “sad similitude” awakes my smart,
And thy dear image twines about my heart.

When at the sober hour of sinking day,
Exhausted Nature steals to soft repose,
When the hush’d linnet slumbers on the spray,
And scarce a ZEPHYR fans the drooping ROSE;
I glance o’er scenes of bliss to friendship dear,
And at the fond remembrance drop a tear;
Nor can the balmy incense soothe my smart,
Still cureless sorrow preys upon my heart.

When the loud gambols of the village throng,
Drown the lorn murmurs of the ring-dove’s throat;
I think I hear thy fascinating song,
Join the melodious minstrel’s tuneful note­
My list’ning ear soon tells me ­’tis not THEE,
Nor THY lov’d song­nor THY soft minstrelsy;
In vain I turn away to hide my smart,
Thy dulcet numbers vibrate in my heart.

When with the Sylvan train I seek the grove,
Where MAY’S soft breath diffuses incense round,
Where VENUS smiles serene, and sportive LOVE
With thornless ROSES spreads the fairy ground;
The voice of pleasure dies upon mine ear,
My conscious bosom sighs­THOU ART NOT HERE !
Soft tears of fond regret reveal its smart,
And sorrow, restless sorrow, chills my heart.

When at my matin pray’rs I prostrate kneel,
And Court RELIGION’s aid to soothe my woe,
The meek-ey’d saint who pities what I feel,
Forbids the sigh to heave, the tear to flow;
For ah ! no vulgar passion fills my mind,
Calm REASON’s hand illumes the flame refin’d,
ALL the pure feelings FRIENDSHIP can impart,
Live in the centre of my aching heart.

When at the still and solemn hour of night,
I press my lonely couch to find repose;
Joyless I watch the pale moon’s chilling light,
Where thro’ the mould’ring tow’r the north-wind blows;
My fev’rish lids no balmy slumbers own,
Still my sad bosom beats for thee alone:
Nor shall its aching fibres cease to smart,
‘Till DEATH’s cold SPELL is twin’d about my HEART.

“All Alone” by Mary Darby Robinson

Source: UMW

Ah! wherefore by the church-yard side,
Poor little lorn one. dost thou stray?
Thy wavy locks but thinly hide
The tears that dim thy blue-eye’s ray;
And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan,
And weep, that thou art left alone?

Thou art not left alone, poor boy,
The traveller stops to hear thy tale;
No heart, so hard, would thee annoy!
For though thy mother’s cheek is pale,
And withers under yon grave stone,
Thou art not, urchin, left alone.

I know thee well! thy yellow hair
In silky waves I oft have seen:
Thy dimpled face so fresh and fair,
Thy roguish smile, thy playful mien,
Were all to me, poor orphan, known,
Ere Fate had left thee–all alone!

Thy russet coat is scant, and torn,
Thy cheek is now grown deathly pale!
Thy eyes are dim, thy looks forlorn,
And bare thy bosom meets the gale;
And oft I hear thee deeply groan,
That thou, poor boy, art left alone.

Thy naked feet are wounded sore
With thorns, that cross thy daily road;
The winter winds around thee roar,
The church-yard is thy bleak abode;
Thy pillow now a cold grave stone–
And there thou lov’st to grieve–alone!

The rain has drench’d thee, all night long;
The nipping frost thy bosom froze;
And still, the yew-tree shades among,
I heard thee sigh thy artless woes;
I heard thee, till the day-star shone
In darkness weep–and weep alone!

Oft have I seen thee, little boy,
Upon thy lovely mother’s knee;
For when she lived, thou wert her joy,
Though now a mourner thou must be!
For she lies low, where yon grave stone
Proclaims that thou art left alone.

Weep, weep no more; on yonder hill
The village bells are ringing, gay;
The merry reed, and brawling rill
Call thee to rustic sports away.
Then wherefore weep, and sigh, and moan,
A truant from the throng–alone?

“I cannot the green hill ascend,
I cannot pace the upland mead;
I cannot in the vale attend
To hear the merry-sounding reed:
For all is still beneath yon stone,
Where my poor mother’s left alone!

“I cannot gather gaudy flowers
To dress the scene of revels loud–
I cannot pass the evening hours
Among the noisy village crowd;
For all in darkness, and alone
My mother sleeps, beneath yon stone.

“See how the stars begin to gleam,
The sheep-dog barks–’tis time to go;
The night-fly hums, the moonlight beam
Peeps through the yew-trees’ shadowy row:
It falls upon the white grave-stone,
Where my dear mother sleeps alone.

“O stay me not, for I must go,
The upland path in haste to tread;
For there the pale primroses grow,
They grow to dress my mother’s bed.
They must ere peep of day, be strown,
Where she lies mouldering all alone.

“My father o’er the stormy sea
To distant lands was borne away,
And still my mother stay’d with me,
And wept by night and toil’d by day.
And shall I ever quit the stone
Where she is left to sleep alone.

“My father died, and still I found
My mother fond and kind to me;
I felt her breast with rapture bound
When first I prattled on her knee–
And then she blest my infant tone,
And little thought of yon grave-stone.

“No more her gentle voice I hear,
No more her smile of fondness see;
Then wonder not I shed the tear,
She would have died to follow me!
And yet she sleeps beneath yon stone,
And I still live–to weep alone.

“Thy playful kid, she loved so well,
From yon high clift was seen to fall;
I heard afar his tinkling bell,
Which seem’d in vain for aid to call–
I heard the harmless sufferer moan,
And grieved that he was left alone.

“Our faithful dog grew mad, and died,
The lightning smote our cottage low–
We had no resting-place beside,
And knew not whither we should go:
For we were poor–and hearts of stone
Will never throb at misery’s groan.

“My mother still survived for me,
She led me to the mountain’s brow,
She watch’d me, while at yonder tree
I sat, and wove the ozier bough;
And oft she cried, “fear not, mine own!
Thou shalt not, boy, be left alone.”

“The blast blew strong, the torrent rose
And bore our shatter’d cot away:
And where the clear brook swiftly flows,
Upon the turf, at dawn of day,
When bright the sun’s full lustre shone,
I wander’d, friendless–and alone!”

Thou art not, boy, for I have seen
Thy tiny footsteps print the dew,
And while the morning sky serene
Spread o’er the hill a yellow hue,
I heard thy sad and plaintive moan,
Beside the cold sepulchral stone.

And when the summer noontide hours
With scorching rays the landscape spread,
I mark’d thee, weaving fragrant flowers
To deck thy mother’s silent bed!
Nor at the church-yard’s simple stone
Wert thou, poor Urchin, left alone.

I follow’d thee along the dale,
And up the woodland’s shad’wy way:
I heard thee tell thy mournful tale
As slowly sunk the star of day:
Nor when its twinkling light had flown
Wert thou a wanderer all alone.

“O! yes, I was! and still shall be
A wanderer, mourning and forlorn;
For what is all the world to me–
What are the dews and buds of morn?
Since she who left me sad, alone
In darkness sleeps, beneath yon stone!

”No brother’s tear shall fall for me,
For I no brother ever knew;
No friend shall weep my destiny,
For friends are scarce, and tears are few;
None do I see, save on this stone,
Where I will stay and weep alone.

“My father never will return,
He rests beneath the sea-green wave
I have no kindred left to mourn
When I am hid in yonder grave:
Not one to dress with flowers the stone!
Then–surely, I am left alone!”

Source: http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/robinson/other/rmd-alone.html

The Fatal Sisters: An Ode 
by Thomas Gray

(FROM THE NORSE TONGUE)

Now the storm begins to lower,
(Haste, the loom of Hell prepare.)
Iron-sleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darken’d air.

Glitt’ring lances are the loom,
Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a soldier’s doom,
Orkney’s woe, and Randver’s bane.

See the grisly texture grow,
(‘Tis of human entrails made,)
And the weights, that play below,
Each a gasping warrior’s head.

Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore,
Shoot the trembling cords along.
Sword, that once a monarch bore,
Keep the tissue close and strong.

Mista black, terrific maid,
Sangrida, and Hilda see,
Join the wayward work to aid:
Tis the woof of victory.

Ere the ruddy sun be set,
Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,
Blade with clatt’ring buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

(Weave the crimson web of war)
Let us go, and let us fly,
Where our friends the conflict share,
Where they triumph, where they die.

As the paths of fate we tread,
Wading thro’ th’ ensanguin’d field:
Gondula, and Geira, spread
O’er the youthful king your shield.

We the reins to slaughter give,
Ours to kill, and ours to spare:
Spite of danger he shall live.
(Weave the crimson web of war.)

They, whom once the desert-beach
Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample sway shall stretch
O’er the plenty of the plain.

Low the dauntless earl is laid
Gor’d with many a gaping wound:
Fate demands a nobler head;
Soon a king shall bite the ground.

Long his loss shall Erin weep,
Ne’er again his likeness see;
Long her strains in sorrow steep,
Strains of immortality.

Horror covers all the heath,
Clouds of carnage blot the sun.
Sisters, weave the web of death;
Sisters, cease, the work is done.

Hail the task, and hail the hands!
Songs of joy and triumph sing!
Joy to the victorious bands;
Triumph to the younger king.

Mortal, thou that hear’st the tale,
Learn the tenor of our song.
Scotland thro’ each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.

Sisters, hence with spurs of speed:
Each her thund’ring falchion wield;
Each bestride her sable steed.
Hurry, hurry to the field.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0TD6ELLBRW0&feature=youtu.be

Source: UMW

By Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

Jonathon Swift, “Stella’s Birthday, 1725”

As, when a beauteous nymph decays,
We say she’s past her dancing days;
So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in prose;
Yet merry folks, who want by chance
A pair to make a country dance,
Call the old housekeeper, and get her
To fill a place for want of better;
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid disgrace,
Once more the Dean supplies their place.
Beauty and wit too sad a truth,
Have always been confined to youth;
The god of wit and beauty’s queen,
He twenty-one and she fifteen:
No poet ever sweetly sung,
Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;
Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme,
Unless, like Venus, in her prime.
At fifty-six, if this be true,
Am I a poet fit for you?
Or, at the age of forty-three,
Are you a subject fit for me?
Adieu, bright wit, and radient eyes;
You must be grave and I be wise.
Our fate in vain we would oppose,
But I’ll still be your friend in prose:
Esteem and friendship to express
Will not require poetic dress;
And if the Muse deny her aid
To have them sung, they may be said.
But Stella, say what evil tongue
Reports you are no longer young;
That Time sits with his scythe to mow
Where erst Cupid sat with his bow;
That half your locks are turned to grey?
I’ll ne’er believe a word they say.
‘Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown;
for nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my sight,
And wrinkles undistinguished pass,
for I’m ashamed to use a glass;
And till I see them with these eyes,
Whoever says you have them, lies.
No length of time can make you quit
Honour and virtue, sense and wit;
Thus you may still be young to me,
While I can better hear than see.
O ne’er may Fortune show her spite,
to make me deaf and mend my sight.

Why should our garments, made to hide
Our parents' shame, provoke our pride?
The art of dress did ne'er begin
Till Eve our mother learnt to sin.

When first she put the covering on,
Her robe of innocence was gone;
And yet her children vainly boast
In the sad marks of glory lost.

How proud we are! how fond to shew
Our clothes, and call them rich and new,
When the poor sheep and silkworms wore
That very clothing long before!

The tulip and the butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I:
Let me be dress'd fine as I will,
Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.

Then will I set my heart to find
Inward adornings of the mind:
Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,
These are the robes of richest dress.

No more shall worms with me compare,
This is the raiment angels wear:
The Son of God, when here below,
Put on this blest apparel too.

It never fades, it ne'er grows old,
Nor fears the rain, nor moth, nor mould:
It takes no spot, but still refines;
The more `tis worn, the more it shines.

In this on earth would I appear,
Then go to heaven, and wear it there:
God will approve it in his sight;
'Tis his own work, and his delight.

On the Death of the Late Earl of Rochester

Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,
The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more.
Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light,
And ne’re shall rise from Deaths eternal Night,
So rich a Prize the Stygian Gods ne’re bore,
Such Wit, such Beauty, never grac’d their Shore.
He was but lent this duller World t’improve
In all the charms of Poetry, and Love;
Both were his gift, which freely he bestow’d,
And like a God, dealt to the wond’ring Crowd.
Scorning the little Vanity of Fame,
Spight of himself attain’d a Glorious name.
But oh! in vain was all his peevish Pride,
The Sun as soon might his vast Lustre hide,
As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright,
As suffering no vicissitudes of Night.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,
The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more.

Now uninspir’d upon your Banks we lye,
Unless when we wou’d moum his Elegie;
His name’s a Genius that wou’d Wit dispense,
And give the Theme a Soul, the Words a Sense.
But all fine thought that Ravisht when it spoke,
With the soft Youth eternal leave has took;
Uncommon Wit that did the soul o’recome,
Is buried all in Strephon’s Worship’d Tomb;
Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone,
The Fop and Cully now may be undone;
That dear instructing Rage is now allay’d,
And no sharp Pen dares tell ‘em how they’ve stray’d;
Bold as a God was ev’ry lash he took,
But kind and gentle the chastising stroke.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Youths, whom Fortune has betray’d,
The last Reproacher of your Vice is dead.

Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your Cyprus on,
The truest Swain that e’re Ador’d you’s gone;
Think how he lov’d, and writ, and sigh’d, and spoke,
Recall his Meen, his Fashion, and his Look.
By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize,
Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes.
Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow’rs,
Bedew’d with everlasting falling Show’rs;
Fix your fair eyes upon your victim’d Slave,
Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave.
See where the Noble Swain Extended lies,
Too sad a Triumph of your Victories;
Adorn’d with all the Graces Heav’n e’re lent,
All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent
You’ve laid into his early Monument.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Beauties, your sad loss deplore,
The Young, the Charming Strephon is no more.

Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whose Darts
Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts;
Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow,
The useless Toys can do no Mischief now,
Those Eyes that all your Arrows points inspir’d,
Those Lights that gave ye fire are now retir’d,
Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mothers Doves;
Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves,
For you the humblest Votary have lost
That ever your Divinities could boast;
Upon your hands your weeping Heads decline,
And let your wings encompass round his Shrine;
In stead of Flow’rs your broken Arrows strow,
And at his feet lay the neglected Bow.
Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore,
The soft, the Charming Strephon is no more.

Large was his Fame, but short his Glorious Race,
Like young Lucretius and dy’d apace.
So early Roses fade, so over all
They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall,
While all the scatter’d perfum’d leaves declare,
How lovely ’twas when whole, how sweet, how fair.
Had he been to the Roman Empire known,
When great Augustus fill’d the peaceful Throne;
Had he the noble wond’rous Poet seen,
And known his Genius, and survey’d his Meen,
(When Wits, and Heroes grac’d Divine abodes,)
He had increas’d the number of their Gods;
The Royal Judge had Temples rear’d to’s name,
And made him as Immortal as his Fame;
In Love and Verse his Ovid he’ad out-done,
And all his Laurels, and his Julia won.
Mourn, Mourn, unhappy World, his loss deplore,
The great, the charming Strephon is no more.

FAIR Amoret is gone astray–
Pursue and seek her, ev’ry lover;
I’ll tell the signs by which you may
The wand’ring Shepherdess discover.

Coquette and coy at once her air,
Both studied, tho’ both seem neglected;
Careless she is, with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart ev’ry glance,
Yet change so soon you’d ne’er suspect them,
For she’d persuade they wound by chance,
Tho’ certain aim and art direct them.

She likes herself, yet others hates
For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.

Who would true valour see,
Let him come hither;
One here will constant be,
Come wind, come weather
There’s no discouragement
Shall make him once relent
His first avowed intent
To be a pilgrim.

Whoso beset him round
With dismal stories
Do but themselves confound;
His strength the more is.
No lion can him fright,
He’ll with a giant fight,
He will have a right
To be a pilgrim.

Hobgoblin nor foul fiend
Can daunt his spirit,
He knows he at the end
Shall life inherit.
Then fancies fly away,
He’ll fear not what men say,
He’ll labor night and day
To be a pilgrim.

Sure of Success, to You I boldly write,
Whilst Love do’s ev’ry tender Line endite;
Love, who is justly President of Verse,
Which all his Servants write, or else rehearse.
Phoebus (howe’er mistaken Poets dream)
Ne’er us’d a Verse, till Love became his Theme.
To his stray’d Son, still as his Passion rose,
He rais’d his hasty Voice in clam’rous Prose:
But when in Daphne he wou’d Love inspire,
He woo’d in Verse, set to his silver Lyre.

The Trojan Prince did pow’rful Numbers join
To sing of War; but Love was the Design:
And sleeping Troy again in Flames was drest,
To light the Fires in pitying Dido’s Breast.

Love without Poetry’s refining Aid
Is a dull Bargain, and but coarsely made;
Nor e’er cou’d Poetry successful prove,
Or touch the Soul, but when the Sense was Love.

Oh! cou’d they both in Absence now impart
Skill to my Hand, but to describe my Heart;
Then shou’d you see impatient of your Stay
Soft Hopes contend with Fears of sad Delay;
Love in a thousand fond Endearments there,
And lively Images of You appear.
But since the Thoughts of a Poetick Mind
Will never be to Syllables confin’d;
And whilst to fix what is conceiv’d, we try,
The purer Parts evaporate and dye:
You must perform what they want force to do,
And think what your ARDELIA thinks of you.

Fear not, my Dear, a Flame can never dye,
That is once kindled by so bright an Eye;
View but thyself, and measure thence my Love,
Think what a Passion such a Form must move;
For though thy Beauty first allur’d my Sight,
Now I consider it but as the Light
That led me to the Treasury of thy Mind,
Whose inward Vertue in that Feature shin’d.
That knot be confident will ever last,
Which Fancy ty’d, and Reason has made fast;
So fast that time, although it may disarm
Thy lovely Face, my Faith can never harm;
And Age deluded, when it comes, will find
My Love removed, and to thy Soul assign’d.

SEest thou younder craggy Rock,
Whose Head o’er-looks the swelling Main,
Where never Shepherd fed his Flock,
Or careful Peasant sow’d his Grain.
No wholesome Herb grows on the same,
Or Bird of Day will on it rest;
‘Tis Barren as the Hopeless Flame,
That scortches my tormented Breast.

Deep underneath a Cave does lie,
Th’ entrance hid with dismal Yew,
Where Phebus never shew’d his Eye,
Or cheerful Day yet pierced through.

In that dark Melancholy Cell,
(Retreate and Sollace to my Woe)
Love, sad Dispair, and I, do dwell,
The Springs from whence my Griefs do flow.

Treacherous Love that did appear,
(When he at first approach’t my Heart)
Drest in a Garb far from severe,
Or threatning ought of future smart.

So Innocent those Charms then seem’d,
When Rosalinda first I spy’d,
Ah! Who would them have deadly deem’d?
But Flowers do often Serpents hide.

Beneath those sweets conceal’d lay,
To Love the cruel Foe, Disdain,
With which (alas) she does repay
My Constant and Deserving Pain.

When I in Tears have spent the Night,
With Sighs I usher in the Sun,
Who never saw a sadder sight,
In all the Courses he has run.

Sleep, which to others Ease does prove,
Comes unto me, alas, in vain:
For in my Dreams I am in Love,
And in them too she does Disdain.

Some times t’Amuse my Sorrow, I
Unto the hollow Rocks repair,
And loudly to the Eccho cry,
Ah! gentle Nimph come ease my Care.

Thou who, times past, a Lover wer’t,
Ah! pity me, who now am so,
And by a sense of thine own smart,
Alleviate my Mighty Woe.

Come Flatter then, or Chide my Grief;
Catch my last Words, and call me Fool;
Or say, she Loves, for my Relief;
My Passion either sooth, or School.

Jonathan Swift
On A Shadow In A Glass

By something form’d, I nothing am,
Yet everything that you can name;
In no place have I ever been,
Yet everywhere I may be seen;
In all things false, yet always true,
I’m still the same—but ever new.
Lifeless, life’s perfect form I wear,
Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear,
Yet neither smell, see, taste, or hear.
All shapes and features I can boast,
No flesh, no bones, no blood—no ghost:
All colours, without paint, put on,
And change like the cameleon.
Swiftly I come, and enter there,
Where not a chink lets in the air;
Like thought, I’m in a moment gone,
Nor can I ever be alone:
All things on earth I imitate
Faster than nature can create;
Sometimes imperial robes I wear,
Anon in beggar’s rags appear;
A giant now, and straight an elf,
I’m every one, but ne’er myself;
Ne’er sad I mourn, ne’er glad rejoice,
I move my lips, but want a voice;
I ne’er was born, nor e’er can die,
Then, pr’ythee, tell me what am I?

Most things by me do rise and fall,
And, as I please, they’re great and small;
Invading foes without resistance,
With ease I make to keep their distance:
Again, as I’m disposed, the foe
Will come, though not a foot they go.
Both mountains, woods, and hills, and rocks
And gamesome goats, and fleecy flocks,
And lowing herds, and piping swains,
Come dancing to me o’er the plains.
The greatest whale that swims the sea
Does instantly my power obey.
In vain from me the sailor flies,
The quickest ship I can surprise,
And turn it as I have a mind,
And move it against tide and wind.
Nay, bring me here the tallest man,
I’ll squeeze him to a little span;
Or bring a tender child, and pliant,
You’ll see me stretch him to a giant:
Nor shall they in the least complain,
Because my magic gives no pain.

A CHARACTER

Though a strong vanity may you persuade—
You are not for a politician made;
Your tropes are drawn from Robin Walpole’s head,
Your sense is but repeating what he said;
A useful puppy, eminently known,
As proud to father what he will not own,
Some arguments he leaves you to expose,
Some valets flutter in my lord’s old clothes.
But should he strip you of his borrow’d sense,
How poorly thin your boasted eloquence!
Know your own talents better, I advise;
Be brisk, yet dull, but aim not to look wise;
In low insipid rhymes place your delight;
Laugh without jests, and without reading write.
Despis’d men, in ladies’ ruelles sit,
Where country coquettes bolster up your wit.
May all your minuets applauses meet!
An able coxcomb only in your feet.
By fawning lies, in leagues with court-knaves grow,
And smile on beauties whom you do not know.
Then, acting all the coyness of a lover,
Your no-intrigue endeavour to discover.
Aiming at wit, in many an evil hour,
Have the perpetual will without the power.
Conceit for breeding, rude for easy take,
Horseplay for wit, and noise for mirth mistake.
Love’s perfect joys to perfect men belong;
Seek you but the occasion for a song.
Thus to the end of life may you remain
A merry blockhead, treacherous and vain.

Song 1
By: Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

Why should you think I live unpleas’d,
Because I am not pleas’d with you?
My mind is not so far diseas’d,
To yield when powder’d fops pursue.
My vanity can find no charm
In common prostituted vows;
Nor can you raise a wish that’s warm
In one that your true value knows.
While cold and careless thus I shun
The buzz and flutter that you make,
Perhaps some giddy girl may run
To catch the prize that I forsake.
So brightly shines the glittering glare,
In unexperienc’d children’s eyes,
When they with little arts ensnare
The gaudy painted butterflies.
While they with pride the conquest boast,
And think the chase deserving care,
Those scorn the useless toil they cost
Who’re us’d to more substantial fare.

Song 2

Fond wishes you pursue in vain,
My heart is vow’d away and gone;
Forbear thy sighs, too, lovely swain,
Those dying airs that you put on!
Go try on other maids your art,
Ah! leave this lost unworthy heart,
But you must leave it soon.
Such sighs as these you should bestow
On some unpractis’d blooming fair;
Where rosy youth doth warmly glow,
Whose eyes forbid you to despair.
Not all thy wond’rous charms can move
A heart that must refuse your love,
Or not deserve your care.

Oldham Promising a Visit

PRECEPT I.

1In Things of moment, on thy self depend,
2Nor trust too far thy Servant or thy Friend:
3With private Views, thy Friend may promise fair,
4And Servants very seldom prove sincere.

PRECEPT II.

5What can be done, with Care perform to Day,
6Dangers unthought-of will attend Delay;
7Your distant Prospects all precarious are,
8And Fortune is as fickle as she’s fair.

PRECEPT III.

9Nor trivial Loss, nor trivial Gain despise;
10Molehills, if often heap’d, to Mountains rise:
11Weigh every small Expence, and nothing waste,
12Farthings long sav’d, amount to Pounds at last.

Against Evil Company

Source: UMW <a href

I

What mean those Amorous Curles of Jet?
For what heart-Ravisht Maid
Dost thou thy Hair in order set,
Thy Wanton Tresses Braid?
And thy vast Store of Beauties open lay,
That the deluded Fancy leads astray.

II

For pitty hide thy Starry eyes,
Whose Languishments destroy:
And look not on the Slave that dyes
With an Excess of Joy.
Defend thy Coral Lips, thy Amber Breath;
To taste these Sweets lets in a Certain Death.

III

Forbear, fond Charming Youth, forbear,
Thy words of Melting Love:
Thy Eyes thy Language well may spare,
One Dart enough can move.
And she that hears thy voice and sees thy Eyes
With too much Pleasure, too much Softness dies.

IV

Cease, Cease, with Sighs to warm my Soul,
Or press me with thy Hand:
Who can the kindling fire controul,
The tender force withstand?
Thy Sighs and Touches like wing’d Lightning fly,
And are the Gods of Loves Artillery.

“Epitaph on the Tombstone of a Child, the Last of Seven that Died Before” by Aphra Behn

This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,
Contains all that was sweet and innocent ;
The softest pratler that e’er found a Tongue,
His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song ;
Which now each List’ning Angel smiling hears,
Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres;
Wanton as unfledg’d Cupids, ere their Charms
Has learn’d the little arts of doing harms ;
Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind,
And tho translated could not be refin’d ;
The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given,
Toil’d here on Earth, retir’d to rest in Heaven ;
Where they the shining Host of Angels fill,
Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.

Mary Monck (ca. 1678-1715)

“Verses Wrote on her Death-Bed atBath, to her Husband, inLondon”

1  THOU, who dost all my worldly thoughts employ,

2  Thou pleasing source of all my earthly joy:

3  Thou tend’rest husband, and thou best of friends,

4  To thee this first, this last adieu I send.

5  At length the conqu’ror death asserts his right,

6  And will for ever veil me from thy sight.

7  He wooes me to him with a chearful grace;

8  And not one terror clouds his meagre face.

9  He promises a lasting rest from pain;

10  And shews that all life’s fleeting joys are vain.

11  Th’ eternal scenes of heav’n he sets in view,

12  And tells me that no other joys are true.

13  But love, fond love, would yet resist his pow’r;

14  Would fain awhile defer the parting hour:

15  He brings thy mourning image to my eyes,

16  And would obstruct my journey to the skies.

17  But say, thou dearest, thou unwearied friend;

18  Say, should’st thou grieve to see my sorrows end?

19  Thou know’st a painful pilgrimage I’ve past;

20  And should’st thou grieve that rest is come at last?

21  Rather rejoice to see me shake off life,

22  And die as I have liv’d, thy faithful wife.

Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued
Thy pastime? when wast thou an egg new-spawn’d,
Lost in th’ immensity of ocean’s waste?
Roar as they might, the overbearing winds
That rock’d the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe—
And in thy minikin and embryo state,
Attach’d to the firm leaf of some salt weed,
Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack’d
The joints of many a stout and gallant bark,
And whelm’d them in the unexplor’d abyss.
Indebted to no magnet and no chart,
Nor under guidance of the polar fire,
Thou wast a voyager on many coasts,
Grazing at large in meadows submarine,
Where flat Batavia just emerging peeps
Above the brine,—where Caledonia’s rocks
Beat back the surge,—and where Hibernia shoots
Her wondrous causeway far into the main.
—Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought’st,
And I not more, that I should feed on thee.
Peace therefore, and good health, and much good fish,
To him who sent thee! and success, as oft
As it descends into the billowy gulph,
To the same drag that caught thee!—Fare thee well!
Thy lot thy brethern of the slimy fin
Would envy, could they know that thou wast doom’d
To feed a bard, and to be prais’d in verse.

To an Unborn Infant
by
Isabella Kelly

 Be still, sweet babe, no harm shall reach thee,
Nor hurt thy yet unfinished form;
Thy mother’s frame shall safely guard thee
From this bleak, this beating storm.

 Promised hope! expected treasure!
Oh, how welcome to these arms!
Feeble, yet they’ll fondly clasp thee,
Shield thee from the least alarms.

Loved already, little blessing,
Kindly cherished, though unknown,
Fancy forms thee sweet and lovely,
Emblem of the rose unblown. 

Though thy father is imprisoned,
Wronged, forgotten, robbed of right,
I’ll repress the rising anguish,
Till thine eyes behold the light.

Start not babe! the hour approaches
That presents the gift of life;
Soon, too soon thou’lt taste of sorrow
In these realms of care and strife.

 Share not thou a mother’s feelings,
Hope vouchsafes a pitying ray;
Though a gloom obscures the morning,
Bright may shine the rising day.

Live, sweet babe, to bless thy father,
When they mother slumbers low;
Slowly lisp her name that loved him,
Through a world of varied woe.

Learn, my child, the mournful story
Of thy suffering mother’s life;
Let thy father not forget her
In a future, happier wife.

Babe of fondest expectation,
Watch his wishes in his face;
What pleased in me mayst thou inherit,
And supply my vacant place.
 

Whisper all the anguished moments
That have wrung this anxious breast:
Say, I lived to give thee being,
And retired to endless rest.

                                                (1794)

“The Atheist and the Acorn”

By Anne Finch

Methinks this World is oddly made,
  And ev’ry thing’s amiss,
A dull presuming Atheist said,
As stretch’d he lay beneath a Shade;
  And instanced in this:

Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing,
  A Pumpkin, large and round,
Is held but by a little String,
Which upwards cannot make it spring,
  Or bear it from the Ground.

Whilst on this Oak, a Fruit so small,
  So disproportion’d, grows;
That, who with Sence surveys this All,
This universal Casual Ball,
  Its ill Contrivance knows.

My better Judgment wou’d have hung
  That Weight upon a Tree,
And left this Mast, thus slightly strung,
‘Mongst things which on the Surface sprung,
  And small and feeble be.

No more the Caviller cou’d say,
  Nor farther Faults descry;
For, as he upwards gazing lay,
An Acorn, loosen’d from the Stay,
  Fell down upon his Eye.

Th’ offended Part with Tears ran o’er,
  As punish’d for the Sin:
Fool! had that Bough a Pumpkin bore,
Thy Whimseys must have work’d no more,
  Nor Scull had kept them in.

ENJOY!!
Sarah :]

Love still has something of the sea,
From whence his Mother rose;
No time his slaves from doubt can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose.

They are becalm’d in clearest days,
And in rough weather tost;
They wither under cold delays,
Or are in tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the port,
Then straight into the main
Some angry wind in cruel sport
Their vessel drives again.

At first disdain and pride they fear,
Which, if they chance to ‘scape,
Rivals and falsehood soon appear
In a more dreadful shape.

By such degrees to joy they come,
And are so long withstood,
So slowly they receive the sum,
It hardly does them good.

‘Tis cruel to prolong a pain;
And to defer a joy,
Believe me, gentle Celemene,
Offends the winged boy.

An hundred thousand oaths your fears
Perhaps would not remove,
And if I gaz’d a thousand years,
I could no deeper love.

Fair Lucy she sits at her father’s door,
A-weeping and making moan,
And by there came her brother dear:
‘What ails thee, Lucy Wan?’

‘I ail, and I ail, dear brother,’ she said,
‘I’ll tell you the reason why;
There is a child between my two sides,
Between you, dear Billy, and I.’

And he has drawn his good broad sword,
That hung down by his knee,
And he has cutted off Lucy Wan’s head.
And her fair body in three.

‘Oh, I have cutted off my greyhound’s head,
And I pray you pardon me.’
‘Oh, this is not the blood of our greyhound,
But the blood of our Lucy.’

‘Oh, what shall you do when your father
comes to know?
My son, pray tell unto me.’
‘I shall dress myself in a new suit of blue
And sail to some far country.’

‘Oh, what will you do with your houses
and your lands?
My son, pray tell unto me?’
‘Oh, I shall leave them all to
my children so small,
By one, by two, by three.’

A Night-Piece on Death, by Thomas Parnell

By the blue taper’s trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o’er:
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I’ll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom’s surely taught below.
How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber’d lie, 
While through their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide!
The slumb’ring breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.  
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly-sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
“Time was, like thee they life possest,
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.”
Those graves, with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumpled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose,
Where toil and poverty repose.
The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel’s slender help to fame,
(Which ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent steps may wear away,)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,  
Whose pillars swell with sculptur’d stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
These (all the poor remains of state)
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All slow, and wan, and wrapp’d with shrouds
They rise in visionary crowds,  
And all with sober accent cry,
“Think, mortal, what it is to die.”
Now from yon black and fun’ral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din;
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O’er the long lake and midnight ground)
It sends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus speaking from among the bones. 
“When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a king of fears am I!
They view me like the last of things:
They make, and then they dread, my stings.
Fools! if you less provok’d your fears,
No more my spectre form appears.
Death’s but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God;
A port of calms, a state of ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas. 
“Why then thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover’d steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o’er the scutcheons of the dead?
“Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe.
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell, 
Whene’er their suff’ring years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glitt’ring sun:
Such joy though far transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac’d,
A few, and evil years they waste;
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tow’r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.”

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Go perjur’d Youth and court what Nymph you please,
Your Passion now is but a dull disease;
With worn-out Sighs deceive some list’ning Ear,
Who longs to know how ’tis and what Men swear;
She’ll think they’re new from you; ’cause so to her.
Poor cousin’d Fool, she ne’er can know the Charms
Of being first encircled in thy Arms,
When all Love’s Joys were innocent and gay,
As fresh and blooming as the new-born day.
Your Charms did then with native Sweetness flow;
The forc’d-kind Complaisance you now bestow,
Is but a false agreeable Design,
But you had Innocence when you were mine,
And all your Words, and Smiles, and Looks divine.
How proud, methinks, thy Mistress does appear
In sully’d Clothes, which I’d no longer wear ;
Her Bosom too with wither’d Flowers drest,
Which lost their Sweets in my first chosen Breast ;
Perjur’d imposing Youth, cheat who you will,
Supply defect of Truth with amorous Skill :
Yet thy Address must needs insipid be,
For the first Ardour of thy Soul was all possess’d by me.

SHOCK’S fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more,
Ye Muses mourn, ye chamber-maids deplore.
Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy fair,
Doom’d to survive thy joy and only care!
Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck,
And tie the fav’rite ribbon round his neck;
No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair,
And comb the wavings of his pendent ear.
Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid;
All mortal pleasures in a moment fade:
Our surest hope is in an hour destroy’d,
And love, best gift of heav’n, not long enjoy’d.

Methinks I see her frantic with despair,
Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair
Her Mechlen pinners rent the floor bestrow,
And her torn fan gives real signs of woe.
Hence Superstition, that tormenting guest,
That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast;
No dread events upon his fate attend,
Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend.
Tho’ certain omens oft forewarn a state,
And dying lions show the monarch’s fate;
Why should such fears bid Celia’s sorrow rise?
For when a lap-dog falls no lover dies.

Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears,
Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares.
In man you’ll find a more substantial bliss,
More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss.

He’s dead. Oh lay him gently in the ground!
And may his tomb be by this verse renown’d.
Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid;
Who fawn’d like man, but ne’er like man betray’d.

Wesley Samuel On Parting with a Little Child read by Valerie Lapointe

DEAR, Farewel, a little while,
Easy parting with a Smile ;

Ev’ry Object in thy Way

Makes Thee innocently gay ;

All that Thou canst hear or fee,

All is Novelty to Thee.
Thoughts of Parents left behind
Vex not yet thine Infant Mind;
Why should then their Hearts repine ?
Mournful Theirs, and merry thine.
‘Tis the World, the seeming Wise, •
Toil to make their Children rife;
While the Heir that reaps their Gains
Thankless thinks not of their Pains.
Sportive Youth in haste to live
Heeds not Ills that Years may give:
Age in Woe and Wisdom grey
Vainly mourns for them that play.

Title: On Censure
Author: Jonathan Swift
Date: 1727

Ye wise, instruct me to endure
An evil, which admits no cure;
Or, how this evil can be borne,
Which breeds at once both hate and scorn.
Bare innocence is no support,
When you are tried in Scandal’s court.
Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit;
All others, who inferior sit,
Conceive themselves in conscience bound
To join, and drag you to the ground.
Your altitude offends the eyes
Of those who want the power to rise.
The world, a willing stander-by,
Inclines to aid a specious lie:
Alas! they would not do you wrong;
But all appearances are strong.
Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay
On what detracting people say!
For let mankind discharge their tongues
In venom, till they burst their lungs,
Their utmost malice cannot make
Your head, or tooth, or finger ache;
Nor spoil your shape, distort your face,
Or put one feature out of place;
Nor will you find your fortune sink
By what they speak or what they think;
Nor can ten hundred thousand lies
Make you less virtuous, learn’d, or wise.
The most effectual way to balk
Their malice, is–to let them talk.