#Irish #XVIICentury #XVIIICentury
From distant regions Fortune send… An odd triumvirate of friends; Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipe… Where never yet a codling ripen’d: Hither the frantic goddess draws
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…
Poor Hall, renown’d for comely ha… Whose hands, perhaps, were not so… Yet had a Jezebel as near; Hall, of small scripture conversat… Yet, howe’er Hungerford’s quotati…
FROM India’s burning clime I’m… With cooling gales like zephyrs fr… Not Iris, when she paints the sky… Can show more different hues than… Nor can she change her form so fas…
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,
The joy of man, the pride of brute… Domestic subject for disputes, Of plenty thou the emblem fair, Adorn’d by nymphs with all their c… I saw thee raised to high renown,
TO THE LORD TREASURER… 1710 Atlas, we read in ancient song, Was so exceeding tall and strong, He bore the skies upon his back,
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,
I with borrow’d silver shine What you see is none of mine. First I show you but a quarter, Like the bow that guards the Tart… Then the half, and then the whole,
Her dead lady’s joy and comfort, Who departed this life The last day of March, 1727: To the great joy of Bryan That his antagonist is gone.
Now hardly here and there a hackne… Appearing, show’d the ruddy morn’s… Now Betty from her master’s bed h… And softly stole to discompose her… The slip-shod 'prentice from his m…
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…
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,
Spite of Dutch friends and Englis… Poor Britain shall have peace at… Holland got towns, and we got blow… But Dunkirk’s ours, we’ll hold it… We have got it in a string,
Pallas, observing Stella’s wit Was more than for her sex was fit, And that her beauty, soon or late, Might breed confusion in the state… In high concern for human kind,
