Tell if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come This camphor, storax, spikenard, galbanum; These musks, these ambers, and those other smells, Sweet as the vestry of the oracles....
When I thy singing next shall hear, I'll wish I might turn all to ear, To drink-in notes and numbers, such As blessed souls can't hear too much Then melted down, there let me lie...
So smooth, so sweet, so silv'ry is thy voice, As, could they hear, the damn'd would make no noise, But listen to thee, walking in thy chamber, Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.
How fierce was I, when I did see My Julia wash herself in thee! So lilies thorough crystal look: So purest pebbles in the brook: As in the river Julia did, Half with a lawn of water hid....
After the rare arch-poet, Jonson, died, The sock grew loathsome, and the buskin's pride, Together with the stage's glory, stood Each like a poor and pitied widowhood....
What wisdom, learning, wit or worth Youth or sweet nature could bring forth Rests here with him who was the fame, The volume of himself and name. If, reader, then, thou wilt draw near...
Have ye beheld (with much delight) A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry (double graced) Within a lily? Centre placed? Or ever marked the pretty beam...
Thrice happy roses, so much grac'd to have Within the bosom of my love your grave. Die when ye will, your sepulchre is known, Your grave her bosom is, the lawn the stone.
O happy time of youthful lovers (thus My story may begin) O balmy time, In which a love-knot on a lady's brow Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven! To such inheritance of blessed fancy...
You've read, sir, in poetic strain, How Varus and the Mantuan swain Have on my birth-day been invited, (But I was forced in verse to write it,) Upon a plain repast to dine,...
I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms...
Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, Was driving to the tither warl' A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, And mony a guilt-bespotted lad; Black gowns of each denomination,...
'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....
A shallow stream, from fountains Deep in the Sandwich mountains, Ran lake ward Bearcamp River; And, between its flood-torn shores, Sped by sail or urged by oars No keel had vexed it ever. ...
Bright was the summer sky, the Mornings gay, And Jane was young and chearful as the Day. Not yet to Love but Mirth she paid her vows; And Echo mock'd her as she call'd her Cows....
'Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind; 'Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays; 'Heavy is woe; and joy, for human-kind, 'A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!'...