Pompey, what fortune gives you back To the friends and the gods who love you? Once more you stand in your native land, With your native sky above you. Ah, side by side, in years agone,...
Indeed I live in the dark ages! A guileless word is an absurdity. A smooth forehead betokens A hard heart. He who laughs Has not yet heard The terrible tidings.
When you and I were younger the world was passing fair; Our days were sped with laughter, our steps were free as air; Life lightly lured us onward, and ceased not to unroll...
O Postumus, my Postumus, the years are gliding past, And piety will never check the wrinkles coming fast, The ravages of time old age's swift advance has made,...
Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas, you have not known that shower That mars a flower,...
What fate decreed, time now has made us see, A renovation of the west by thee. That preternatural fever, which did threat Death to our country, now hath lost his heat,...
O you that were eyes and light to the King till he past away From the darkness of life' He saw not his daughter'he blest her: the blind King sees you to-day, He blesses the wife.
JOHN courts Perrette; but all in vain; Love's sweetest oaths, and tears, and sighs All potent spells her heart to gain The ardent lover vainly tries: Fruitless his arts to make her waver,...
"Give me only a fragment of earth beyond the earth's limits," So the godlike man said, "and I will move it with ease." Only give me permission to leave myself for one moment,...
Once I beheld the fairest of her kind, And still the sweet idea charms my mind: True, she was dumb; for Nature gazed so long, Pleased with her work, that she forgot her tongue;...
I will not striue m' inuention to inforce, With needlesse words your eyes to entertaine, T' obserue the formall ordinarie course That euerie one so vulgarly doth faine:...
Go then, if she, whose shade thou art, No more will let thee soothe my pain; Yet, tell her, it has cost this heart Some pangs, to give thee back again.
As, when a lofty pile is raised, We never hear the workmen praised, Who bring the lime, or place the stones. But all admire Inigo Jones: So, if this pile of scatter'd rhymes...
Begone, ye Critics, and restrain your spite, Codrus writes on, and will for ever write, The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone, As clocks run fastest when most lead is on;...