#Irish #XVIIICentury
THIS tomb, inscrib’d to gentle P… May speak our gratitude, but not h… What heart but feels his sweetly-m… That leads to truth through pleasu… Celestial themes confess’d his tun…
WHERE the Red Lion flaring o’er… Invites each passing stranger that… Where Calvert’s butt, and Parsons… Regale the drabs and bloods of Dr… There in a lonely room, from baili…
PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS. WHAT! no way left to shun th’ in… And save from infamy my sinking ag… Scarce half alive, oppress’d with… What in the name of dotage drives…
WHAT! five long acts—and all to… Our authoress sure has wanted an a… Had she consulted 'me’, she should… Her moral play a speaking masquera… Warm’d up each bustling scene, and…
HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from… Who long was a bookseller’s hack; He led such a damnable life in thi… I don’t think he’ll wish to come b…
YE Muses, pour the pitying tear For Pollio snatch’d away; O! had he liv’d another year!- ‘He had not died to-day’. O! were he born to bless mankind,
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO… THANKS, my Lord, for your venis… Never rang’d in a forest, or smok’… The haunch was a picture for paint… The fat was so white, and the lean…
JOHN TROTT was desired by two… To tell them the reason why asses… ‘An’t please you,' quoth John, 'I… Nor dare I pretend to know more t… Howe’er, from this time I shall n…
IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT LONG had I sought in vain to fin… A likeness for the scribbling kind… The modern scribbling kind, who wr… In wit, and sense, and nature’s sp…
CHASTE are their instincts, fai… No foreign beauty tempts to false… The snow-white vesture, and the gl… The simple plumage, or the glossy… Prompt not their loves:—the patrio…
WELL, having stoop’d to conquer… And gain’d a husband without aid f… Still, as a Bar-maid, I could wis… As I have conquer’d him, to conqu… And let me say, for all your resol…
ADDRESSED TO THE GE… A POEM, BY THE AUTHOR Worried with debts and past all ho… His pen he prostitutes t’ avoid a… ROSCOM.
WEEPING, murmuring, complaining… Lost to every gay delight; MYRA, too sincere for feigning, Fears th’ approaching bridal night… Yet, why impair thy bright perfect…
Good people all, with one accord Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word,— From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom passed her door,
