#EnglishWriters
It is not from his form, in which… Strength join’d with beauty, digni… That man, the master of this globe… His right of empire over all that… That form, indeed, the associate o…
Source of love, my brighter sun, Thou alone my comfort art; See, my race is almost run; Hast thou left this trembling hear… In my youth thy charming eyes
Thee, whose refulgent staff and su… Minerva’s flock longtime was wont… Although thyself an herald, famous… The last of heralds, Death, has s… He calls on all alike, nor even de…
Here lies one who never drew Blood himself, yet many slew; Gave the gun its aim, and figure Made in field, yet ne’er pulled tr… Armed men have gladly made
I am just two and two, I am warm,… And the parent of numbers that can… I am lawful, unlawful—a duty, a fa… I am often sold dear, good for not… An extraordinary boon, and a matte…
Dear President, whose art sublime Gives perpetuity to time, And bids transactions of a day, That fleeting hours would waft awa… To dark futurity, survive,
Art thou some individual of a kind Long-lived by nature as the rook o… Heap treasure, then, for if thy ne… Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst… But man thou seem’st, clear theref…
“Me too, perchance, in future days… The sculptured stone shall show, With Paphian myrtle or with bays Parnassian on my brow. But I, or e’er that season come,
William was once a bashful youth; His modesty was such, That one might say (to say the tru… He rather had too much. Some said that it was want of sens…
A miser traversing his house, Espied, unusual there, a mouse, And thus his uninvited guest Briskly inquisitive address’d: ‘Tell me, my dear, to what cause i…
Reader! behold a monument That asks no sigh or tear, Though it perpetuate the event Of a great burial here.
The saints should never be dismay’… Nor sink in hopeless fear; For when they least expect His ai… The Saviour will appear. This Abraham found: he raised the…
Still, still, without ceasing, I feel it increasing, This fervour of holy desire; And often exclaim, Let me die in the flame
Nor oils of balmy scene produce, Nor mirror for Minerva’s use, Ye nymphs who lave her; she, array… In genuine beauty, scorns their ai… Not even when they left the skies,
Dear Lord! accept a sinful heart, Which of itself complains, And mourns, with much and frequent… The evil it contains. There fiery seeds of anger lurk,