"But if any old Lady, Knight, Priest, or Physician, Should condemn me for printing a second edition; If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse, May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?" ...
Doubtless, sweet girl, the hissing lead, Wafting destruction near thy charms, And hurtling[1] o'er thy lovely head, Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.
Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller; Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits: disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I...
Nose and Chin that make a knocker,[hx] Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker; Mouth that marks the envious Scorner, With a Scorpion in each corner Curling up his tail to sting you,[hy]...
Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, A loud lament along the sweeping sea!...
Why, Pigot, complain Of this damsel's disdain, Why thus in despair do you fret? For months you may try, Yet, believe me, a sigh Will never obtain a coquette.
Ye Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd: For he was gentle, and so true,...
Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.
He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of Love, By Death's unequal[1] hand alike controul'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
'Tis midnight - but it is not dark Within thy spacious place, St. Mark! The Lights within, the Lamps without, Shine above the revel rout. The brazen Steeds are glittering o'er...