'Tis hard to say, if greater want… Appear in writing or in judging il… But, of the two, less dang’rous is… To tire our patience, than mislead… Some few in that, but numbers err…
Learn then what morals critics oug… For 'tis but half a judge’s task,… ‘Tis not enough, taste, judgment,… In all you speak, let truth and ca… That not alone what to your sense…
When simple Macer, now of high re… First fought a Poet’s Fortune in… 'Twas all th’ Ambition his high s… To wear red stockings, and to dine… Some Ends of verse his Betters mi…
She said, and for her lost Calant… When the fair Consort of her son… 'Since you a servant’s ravish’d fo… And kindly sigh for sorrows not yo… Let me (if tears and grief permit)…
While Celia’s Tears make sorrow b… Proud Grief sits swelling in her… The Sun, next those the fairest l… Thus from the Ocean first did ris… And thus thro’ Mists we see the S…
Begone, ye Critics, and restrain… Codrus writes on, and will for eve… The heaviest Muse the swiftest co… As clocks run fastest when most le… What tho’ no bees around your crad…
How happy he, who free from care The rage of courts, and noise of t… Contented breaths his native air, In his own grounds. II.
Father of all! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord! Thou Great First Cause, least un…
But anxious cares the pensive nymp… And secret passions labour’d in he… Not youthful kings in battle seiz’… Not scornful virgins who their cha… Not ardent lovers robb’d of all th…
Of gentle Philips will I ever sin… With gentle Philips shall the val… My numbers too for ever will I va… With gentle Budgell and with gent… Or if in ranging of the names I j…
Ye Lords and Commons, Men of Wit… And Pleasure about Town; Read this ere you translate one B… Of Books of high Renown. Beware of Latin Authors all!
Tho’ Artemisia talks, by fits, Of councils, classics, fathers, wi… Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Loc… Yet in some things methinks she fa… 'Twere well if she would pare her…
In beauty, or wit, No mortal as yet To question your empire has dared: But men of discerning Have thought that in learning
The Mighty Mother, and her son wh… The Smithfield muses to the ear o… I sing. Say you, her instruments… Called to this work by Dulness, J… You by whose care, in vain decried…
Vital spark of heav’nly flame! Quit, O quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flyi… O the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy str…
