ON RAINY days alone I dine Upon a chick and pint of wine. On rainy days I dine alone And pick my chicken to the bone; But this my servants much enrages,

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…

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…

To the Priest, on Observing how m… When beasts could speak (the learn… They still can do so ev’ry day), It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men.

Ever eating, never cloying, All-devouring, all-destroying, Never finding full repast, Till I eat the world at last.

Resolved my gratitude to show, Thrice reverend Dean, for all I o… Too long I have my thanks delay’d… Your favours left too long unpaid; But now, in all our sex’s name,

Dingley and Brent, Wherever they went, Ne’er minded a word that was spoke… Whatever was said, They ne’er troubled their head,

Tormented with incessant pains, Can I devise poetic strains? Time was, when I could yearly pay My verse to Stella’s native day: But now unable grown to write,

This day, dear Bec, is thy nativi… Had Fate a luckier one, she’d giv… She chose a thread of greatest len… And doubly twisted it for strength… Nor will be able with her shears

Deprived of root, and branch and r… Yet flowers I bear of every kind: And such is my prolific power, They bloom in less than half an ho… Yet standers-by may plainly see

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

The nymph who wrote this in an amo… I cannot but envy the pride of her… Which thus she will venture profus… On so mean a design, and a subject… For mean’s her design, and her sub…

At Market-Hill, as well appears By chronicle of ancient date, There stood for many hundred years A spacious thorn before the gate. Hither came every village maid,

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,

This day, whate’er the Fates decr… Shall still be kept with joy by me… This day then let us not be told, That you are sick, and I grown ol… Nor think on our approaching ills,