Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye, My own true love so sweete? For the flowers have lightly toss'd awaye The prynte of her faery feete. Now, how can we telle if she passed us bye?...
Champagne doth not a luncheon make, Nor caviare a meal; Men gluttonous and rich may take These till they make them ill. If I've potatoes to my chop, And after that have cheese,...
Sir W. Bovill was specially retained in an action for damages caused by the overflowing of the banks of the Witham. With great spirit he contended that the river had for three days flowed from the sea. ...
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field! I ask no more Than one plain field, shut in by hedgerows four, Contentment sweet to yield. For I am not fastidious,...
The linnet had flown from its cage away, And flitted and sang in the light of day-- Had flown from the lady who loved it well, In Liberty's freer air to dwell. Alas! poor bird, it was soon to prove,...
Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep! Evening is coming, and night is nigh; Under the lattice the little birds cheep, All will be sleeping by and by. Sleep, little baby, sleep. ...
Oh this earth is a mineful of treasure, A goblet, that's full to the brim, And each man may take for his pleasure The thing that's most pleasant to him;...
Two neighbours, fighting for a yard of land; Two witnesses, who lie on either hand; Two lawyers, issuing many writs and pleas; Two clerks, in a dark passage counting fees;...
In olden time--in great Eliza's age, When rare Ben Jonson ruled the humorous stage, No play without its Prologue might appear To earn applause or ward the critic's sneer;...
The following "Prothalamion" was recently discovered among some other rubbish in Pope's Villa at Twickenham. It was written on the backs of old envelopes, and has evidently not received the master's last touches. Some of the...
Take, oh take those boots away, That so nearly are outworn; And those shoes remove, I pray-- Pumps that but induce the corn! But my slippers bring again, Bring again;...
You say 'tis plain that poets feign, And from the truth depart; They write with ease what fibs they please, With artifice, not art; Dearer to you the simply true-- The fact without the fancy--...
The times still "grow to something strange"; We rap and turn the tables; We fire our guns at awful range; We lay Atlantic cables; We bore the hills, we bridge the seas-- To me 'tis better far...