Dear Lady of Tranquillity, Ah! lightly have the years Their music on thy heart-strings played, and all the smiles and tears That mark the joy of living, that sound the depths of pain...
The bard, if e'er he feel at all, Must sure be quicken'd by a call Both on his heart and head, To pay with tuneful thanks the care And kindness of a lady fair, Who deigns to deck his bed.
Oh be thou blest with all that Heav'n can send, Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a Friend: Not with those Toys the female world admire, Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire....
While, bending at thy honour'd shrine, the Muse Pours, MONTAGU, to thee her votive strain, Thy heart will not her simple notes refuse, Or chill her timid soul with cold disdain. ...
A noble theme demands a noble verse, In such I thank you for your fine oysters. The barrel was magnificently large, But, being sent to Olney at free charge, Was not inserted in the driver's list,...
Mon ame sur mon l'vre 'toit lors toute enti're. Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre 'toit; Mais en me retirant, elle resta derri're, Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'a restoit. VOITURE.
Is not thy mind a gentle mind? Is not that heart a heart refined? Hast thou not every gentle grace, We love in woman's mind and face? And, oh! art thou a shrine for Sin To hold her hateful worship in?...
Sure there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain To write, while these malignant planets reign. Some very foolish influence rules the pit, Not always kind to sense, or just to wit:...
I mind it weel in early date, When I was beardless, young and blate, An' first could thresh the barn; Or hand a yokin at the pleugh; An' tho' forfoughten sair enough, Yet unco proud to learn:...
Maria, could Horace have guess'd What honour awaited his ode To his own little volume address'd, The honour which you have bestow'd; Who have traced it in characters here, So elegant, even, and neat,...
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things,...
No more of your guests, be they titled or not, And cook'ry the first in the nation; Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, Is proof to all other temptation.
Resign'd to live, prepar'd to die, With not one sin, but poetry, This day Tom's fair account has run (Without a blot) to eighty-one. Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays A table, with a cloth of bays;...
Tom - garlanded with squat and surly steel Tom; then Tom's fallowbootfellow piles pick By him and rips out rockfire homeforth - sturdy Dick; Tom Heart-at-ease, Tom Navvy: he is all for his meal...
On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer, Old soldiers stumbling homeward here, Homeward (still dazzled by the spark Love kindled in some alley dark) Young soldiers mooning in slow thought,...