Nobles and Heralds, by your leave… Here lie the bones of Matthew Pri… A son of Adam and Eve: Let Bourbon or Nassau go higher.

In awful pomp and melancholy state… See settled Reason on the judgeme… Around her crowd Distrust, and Do… And thoughtful Foresight, and tor… Far from the throne the trembling…

Recit. Beneath a verdant laurel’s ample s… His lyre to mournful numbers strun… Horace, immortal bard supinely lai… To Venus thus address’d the song;

Dear Chloe, how blubber’d is that… Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hai… Prythee quit this caprice; and (as… Let us e’en talk a little like fol… How canst thou presume, thou hast…

The merchant, to secure his treasu… Conveys it in a borrow’d name: Euphelia serves to grace my measur… But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre,

Phillis, give this humour over, We too long have time abused; I shall turn an errant rover If the favour’s still refused. Faith ’tis nonsense out of measure…

Solomon considers man through the several stages and conditions of life, and concludes, in general, that we are all miserable. He reflects more particularly upon the trouble and uncerta...

Fire, Water, Woman, are Man’s Ru… Says wise Professor Vander Bruin… By Flames a House I hir’d was lo… Last Year: and I must pay the Co… This Spring the Rains o’erflow’d…

Let 'em Censure: what care I? The Herd of Criticks I defie. Let the Wretches know, I write Regardless of their Grace, or Spi… No, no: the Fair, the Gay, the Y…

Love! inform thy faithful creature How to keep his fair one’s heart; Must it be by truth of nature, Or by poor dissembling art? Tell the secret, show the wonder,

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tin-man’s shop? There, Thomas, didst thou never s… ('Tis but by way of simile) A squirrel spend his little rage

In one great now, superior to an age, The full extremes of nature’s forc… How heavenly virtue can exalt, or… Infernal how degrade the human min…

Alexis shun’d his Fellow Swains, Their rural Sports, and jocund St… (Heav’n guard us all from Cupid’s… He lost his Crook, He left his F… And wand’ring thro’ the lonely Ro…

In vain, alas! poor Strephon trie… To ease his tortured breast, Since Amoret the cure denies, And makes his pain a jest. Ah! fair one, why to me so coy,