The man who keeps a conscience pure, (If not his own, at least his Prince's,) Thro' toil and danger walks secure, Looks big and black and never winces.
How am I to punish thee, For the wrong thou'st done to me Silly swallow, prating thing-- Shall I clip that wheeling wing? Or, as Tereus did, of old,[2] (So the fabled tale is told,)...
"Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee, What in purchase shall I pay thee For this little waxen toy, Image of the Paphian boy?" Thus I said, the other day, To a youth who past my way:...
They tell how Atys, wild with love, Roams the mount and haunted grove;[1] Cvbele's name he howls around, The gloomy blast returns the sound! Oft too, by Claros' hallowed spring,[2]...
I will, I will, the conflict's past, And I'll consent to love at last. Cupid has long, with smiling art, Invited me to yield my heart; And I have thought that peace of mind...
Count me, on the summer trees, Every leaf that courts the breeze; Count me, on the foamy deep, Every wave that sinks to sleep; Then, when you have numbered these...
Here recline you, gentle maid, Sweet is this embowering shade; Sweet the young, the modest trees, Ruffled by the kissing breeze; Sweet the little founts that weep,...
I know that Heaven hath sent me here, To run this mortal life's career; The scenes which I have journeyed o'er, Return no more--alas! no more! And all the path I've yet to go,...
When Spring adorns the dewy scene, How sweet to walk the velvet green, And hear the west wind's gentle sighs, As o'er the scented mead it flies! How sweet to mark the pouting vine,...
Yes, be the glorious revel mine, Where humor sparkles from the wine. Around me, let the youthful choir Respond to my enlivening lyre; And while the red cup foams along,...
While our rosy fillets shed Freshness o'er each fervid head, With many a cup and many a smile The festal moments we beguile. And while the harp, impassioned flings Tuneful rapture from its strings,[1]...
Buds of roses, virgin flowers, Culled from Cupid's balmy bowers, In the bowl of Bacchus steep, Till with crimson drops they weep. Twine the rose, the garland twine,...
When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy, The rosy harbinger of joy, Who, with the sunshine of the bowl, Thaws the winter of our soul-- When to my inmost core he glides, And bathes it with his ruby tides,...
Within this goblet, rich and deep, I cradle all my woes to sleep. Why should we breathe the sigh of fear, Or pour the unavailing tear? For death will never heed the sigh, Nor soften at the tearful eye;...
Behold, the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her scented wing: While virgin Graces, warm with May; Fling roses o'er her dewy way. The murmuring billows of the deep...
'Tis true, my fading years decline, Yet can I quaff the brimming wine, As deep as any stripling fair, Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear; And if, amidst the wanton crew,...
When my thirsty soul I steep, Every sorrow's lulled to sleep. Talk of monarchs! I am then Richest, happiest, first of men; Careless o'er my cup I sing, Fancy makes me more than king;...
Tell me, why, my sweetest dove, Thus your humid pinions move, Shedding through the air in showers Essence of the balmiest flowers? Tell me whither, whence you rove,...