What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she!'but why that bleeding bosom gor'd, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?...
In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns; What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?...
A Bishop, by his neighbours hated, Has cause to wish himself translated: But why should Hough desire translation, Loved and esteem'd by all the nation? Yet, if it be the old man's case,...
Nothing so true as what you once let fall, "Most Women have no Characters at all." Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair. ...
Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures: Et sermone opus est modo tristi, saepe jocoso, Defendente vicem modo Rhetoris atque Poetae,...
Neque sermonibus vulgi dederis te, nec in prmiis spem posueris rerum tuarum; suiste oportet illecebris ipsa virtus trahat ad verum decus. Quid de te alii loquantur, ipsi videant,sed loquentur tamen....