I sent for Ratcliffe, was so ill, That other doctors gave me over, He felt my pulse, prescribed his p… And I was likely to recover. But when the wit began to wheeze,

When Jove lay bless’d in his Alcm… Three nights in one he press’d her… The sun lay set, and conscious nat… To shade her god, and to prolong h… From that auspicious night Alcide…

Dum studeo fungi fallentis munere… Adfectoque viam sedibus Elysiis Arctoa florens sophia, Samiisque… Discipulis, animas morte carere ca… Has ego corporibus profugas ad sid…

Will Piggot must to Coxwould go, To live, alas! in want, Unless Sir Thomas say, No, no, Th’ allowance is too scant. The gracious knight full well does…

Whilst I am scorch’d with hot des… In vain cold Friendship you retur… Your drops of pity on my fire, Alas! but make it fiercer burn. Ah! would you have the flame suppr…

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...

No - I’ll endure ten thousand dea… Ere any further I’ll comply: Oh! Sir, no man on earth that bre… Had ever yet his hand so high. Oh! take your sword and pierce my…

On his death-bed poor Lubin lies: His spouse is in despair: With frequent sobs, and mutual cri… They both express their care. A different cause, says Parson Sl…

Whilst I in prison or in court lo… Nor beg thy favour nor deserve thy… In vain malicious Fortune hast th… By taking from my state to quell m… Insulting girl, thy present rage a…

Yes, fairest Proof of Beauty’s P… Dear Idol of My panting Heart, Nature points This my fatal Hour: And I have liv’d; and We must par… While now I take my last Adieu,

Celia and I the other Day Walk’d o’er the Sand-Hills to the… The setting Sun adorn’d the Coast… His Beams entire, his Fierceness… And, on the Surface of the Deep,

Reading ends in melancholy, Wine breeds vices and diseases, Wealth is but care, and love but f… Only friendship truly pleases. My wealth, my books, my flask, my…

Morella, charming without art, And kind without design, Can never lose the smallest part Of such a heart as mine. Obliged a thousand several ways,

Written three hundred years since. Be it right or wrong, these men am… On women do complayne; Affyrmynge this, how that it is A labour spent in vaine

Say, sire of insects, mighty Sol, (A fly upon the chariot-pole Cries out) What blue-bottle alive Did ever with such fury drive? Tell Beelzebub, great Father, tel…