#IrishWriters
From London to Exon, By special direction, Came down the world’s wonder, Sir Salathiel Blunder, With a quoif on his head
The Thresher Duck, could o’er the… The Proverb says; No Fence again… From threshing Corn, he turns to… For which Her My allows him Grai… Though ’tis confess’t, that those…
The rod was but a harmless wand, While Moses held it in his hand; But, soon as e’er he laid it down, Twas a devouring serpent grown. Our great magician, Hamet Sid,
To their Excellencies the Lords… The humble petition of Frances Ha… Who must starve and die a maid if… Humble sheweth, that I went to wa… was cold;
Daphne knows, with equal ease, How to vex, and how to please; But the folly of her sex Makes her sole delight to vex. Never woman more devised
From Heaven I fall, though from e… No lady alive can show such a skin… I’m bright as an angel, and light… But heavy and dark, when you squee… Though candour and truth in my asp…
Ye Commons and Peers, Pray lend me your ears, I’ll sing you a song, (if I can,) How Lewis le Grand Was put to a stand,
Don Carlos, in a merry spight, Did Stella to his house invite: He entertain’d her half a year With generous wines and costly che… Don Carlos made her chief directo…
Ah! Strephon, how can you despise Her, who without thy pity dies! To Strephon I have still been tru… And of as noble blood as you; Fair issue of the genial bed,
By an old––––pursued, A crazy prelate, and a royal prude… By dull divines, who look with env… On ev’ry genius that attempts to r… And pausing o’er a pipe, with doub…
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 tr…
When on my bosom thy bright eyes, Florinda, dart their heavenly beam… I feel not the least love surprise… Yet endless tears flow down in str… There’s nought so beautiful in the…
While, Stella, to your lasting pr… The Muse her annual tribute pays, While I assign myself a task Which you expect, but scorn to ask… If I perform this task with pain,
I am jet black, as you may see, The son of pitch and gloomy night: Yet all that know me will agree, I’m dead except I live in light. Sometimes in panegyric high,
The Dean would visit Market-hill; Our invitation was but slight; I said’why’Let him if he will… And so I bid Sir Arthur write. His manners would not let him wait…