1. A cat in distress, Nothing more, nor less; Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye, As I am a sinner, It waits for some dinner To stuff out its own little belly.
By holy zeal inspired, and led by fame, To thee, once favourite isle, with joy I came; What time the Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun, Had my own native Italy[1] o'errun. Ierne, to the world's remotest parts,...
Behold, those monarch oaks, that rise With lofty branches to the skies, Have large proportion'd roots that grow With equal longitude below: Two bards that now in fashion reign,...
Madam, Since Anna visited the muse's seat, (Around her tomb let weeping angels wait) Hail, thou, the brightest of thy sex, and best, Most gracious neighbour and most welcome guest:...
O raise those eyes to me again And smile again so joyously, And fear not, love; it was not pain Nor grief that drew these tears from me; Beloved child, thou canst not tell...
Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure! O thou my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!...
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, Who had so many children she didn't know what to do; She gave them some broth without any bread, And whipt them all soundly and sent them to bed. ...
Victory comes late, And is held low to freezing lips Too rapt with frost To take it. How sweet it would have tasted, Just a drop! Was God so economical? His table 's spread too high for us...
Armies of box that sportively engage And mimic real battles in their rage, Pleased I recount; how, smit with glory's charms, Two mighty Monarchs met in adverse arms,...
This Height a ministering Angel might select: For from the summit of BLACK COMB (dread name Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range Of unobstructed prospect may be seen...
VITTORIA COLONNA, on the death of her hushand, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarime), and there wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of Divine. ...
These flowers are I, poor Fanny Hurd, Sir or Madam, A little girl here sepultured. Once I flit-fluttered like a bird Above the grass, as now I wave In daisy shapes above my grave, All day cheerily,...
'As a matter of fact, no man living, or who ever lived, not C'sar or Pericles, not Shakespeare or Michael Angelo, could confer honour more than he took on entering the House of Lords.' - Saturday Review, December 15, 1883....
"Rattle and clatter and clank and whirr,"-- And it's long and long the day is. From earliest morn to late at night, And all night long, the selfsame song,---...
Could there be words found to expresse my losse, There were some hope, that this my heauy crosse Might be sustained, and that wretched I Might once finde comfort: but to haue him die...