Works

I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read,
And lik'st the best. Still thou reply'st: The dead.
I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be;
Then sure thou'lt like or thou wilt envy me.

All love that has not friendship for its base
Is like a mansion built upon the sand.
Though brave its walls as any in the land,
And its tall turrets lift their heads in grace;...

Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay
Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,
Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;...

O times most bad,
Without the scope
Of hope
Of better to be had!

Where shall I go,
Or whither run
To shun
This public overthrow?

No places are,
This I am sure,...

Les allemans ne ce soucient pas quel vin its boivent
pouveu que ce soit vin, ni quel Latin ils parletn
vue que ce soit Latin.

When you with High-Dutch Heeren dine,
Expect false Latin and stum'd wine:...

Time was upon
The wing, to fly away;
And I call'd on
Him but awhile to stay;
But he'd be gone,
For aught that I could say.

He held out then
A writing, as he went,
And ask'd me, when...

The eggs of pheasants wry-nosed Tooly sells,
But ne'er so much as licks the speckled shells:
Only, if one prove addled, that he eats
With superstition, as the cream of meats....

Trap of a player turn'd a priest now is:
Behold a sudden metamorphosis.
If tithe-pigs fail, then will he shift the scene,
And from a priest turn player once again.

Tom shifts the trenchers; yet he never can
Endure that lukewarm name of serving-man:
Serve or not serve, let Tom do what he can,
He is a serving, who's a trencher-man.

Trigg having turn'd his suit, he struts in state,
And tells the world he's now regenerate.

Truggin a footman was; but now, grown lame,
Truggin now lives but to belie his name.

For thirty years Tubbs has been proud and poor;
'Tis now his habit, which he can't give o'er.

At post and pair, or slam, Tom Tuck would play
This Christmas, but his want wherewith says nay.

Umber was painting of a lion fierce,
And, working it, by chance from Umber's erse
Flew out a crack, so mighty, that the fart,
As Umber states, did make his lion start.

Urles had the gout so, that he could not stand;
Then from his feet it shifted to his hand:
When 'twas in's feet, his charity was small;
Now 'tis in's hand, he gives no alms at all.

Ursley, she thinks those velvet patches grace
The candid temples of her comely face;
But he will say, whoe'er those circlets seeth,
They be but signs of Ursley's hollow teeth.

Vinegar is no other, I define,
Than the dead corps, or carcase of the wine.

"What I spent I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have."


But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life,
The waving of the banners, and the rattle of the spears,...

"What I spent I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have."

But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life,
The waving of the banners, and the rattle of the spears,...

So long, it seem'd, as Mary's faith was small,
Christ did her woman, not her Mary call;
But no more woman, being strong in faith,
But Mary call'd then, as St. Ambrose saith.