#EnglishWriters
Farewell, Amynta, we must part; The charm has lost its power Which held so fast my captived hea… Until this fatal hour. Hadst thou not thus my love abused…
The bewailing of man’s miseries hath been elegantly and copiously set forth by many, in the writings as well of philosophers as divines; and it is both a pleasant and a profitable conte...
Ovid is the surest guide You can name to show the way To any woman, maid, or bride, Who resolves to go astray.
Dear Cloe, how blubber’d is that… Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hai… Pr’ythee quit this caprice; and (a… Let us e’en talk a little like fol… How can’st thou presume, thou hast…
Phillis, since we have both been k… And of each other had our fill, Tell me what pleasure you can find In forcing Nature 'gainst her wil… ’Tis true, you may, with art and p…
Haste, my Nannette, My lovely maid, Haste to the bower Thy swain has made. For thee alone
Thy nags, the leanest things alive… So very hard thou lovest to drive, I heard thy anxious coachman say It costs thee more in whips than h…
Hans Carvel, impotent and old, Married a lass of London mould. Handsome? Enough; extremely gay; Loved music, company, and play: High flights she had, and wit at w…
Dulce est desipere in loco. Some Folks are drunk, yet do not… So might not Bacchus give You La… Was it a Muse, O lofty Poet, Or Virgin of St. Cyr, You saw?
The merchant, to secure his treasu… Conveys it in a borrowed name: Euphelia serves to grace my measur… But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre
The amorous youth, whose tender br… Was by his darling Cat possest, Obtain’d of Venus his desire, Howe’er irregular his fire: Nature the power of love obey’d,
His lamp, his bow, and quiver laid… A rustic wallet o’er his shoulders… Sly Cupid, always on new mischief… To the rich field and furrow’d til… Like any ploughman toil’d the litt…
As after noon, one summer’s day, Venus stood bathing in a river; Cupid a-shooting went that way, New strung his bow, new fill’d his… With skill he chose his sharpest d…
Phillis, this pious talk give o’er… And modesty pretend no more, It is too plain an art: Surely you take me for a fool, And would by this prove me so dull
Once I was unconfined and free, Would I had been so still! Enjoying sweetest liberty, And roving at my will. But now, not master of my heart,