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. ...
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....
This verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse This from no venal or ungrateful Muse. Whether thy hand strike out some free design, Where life awakes, and dawns at every line;...
As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care Drags from the town to wholesome country air, Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;...
Such were the notes thy once-loved Poet sung, Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh just beheld and lost! admired and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd!...
To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear: Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died. ...
Jacobus Craggs Regi Magnae Britannia A Secretis Et Consiliis Sanctioribus, Principis Pariter Ac Populi Amor Et Deliciae: Vixit Titulis Et Invidia Major Annos, Heu Paucos, Xxxv. Ob. Feb. Xvi. Mdccxx. ...
Here, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind, Thy country's friend, but more of human kind. Oh, born to arms! oh, worth in youth approved! Oh, soft humanity, in age beloved!...
Kneller, by Heaven, and not a master, taught, Whose art was Nature, and whose pictures Thought; Now for two ages having snatch'd from Fate Whate'er was beauteous, or whate'er was great,...
Thy relics, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust, And sacred place by Dryden's awful dust: Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes....
Here rests a woman, good without pretence, Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense: No conquests she, but o'er herself, desired, No arts essay'd, but not to be admired....
Yes, we have lived--one pang, and then we part! May Heaven, dear father! now have all thy heart. Yet ah! how once we loved, remember still, Till you are dust like me.
Of manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit, a man; simplicity, a child: With native humour tempering virtuous rage, Form'd to delight at once and lash the age: Above temptation in a low estate,...
If modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd, And every opening virtue blooming round, Could save a parent's justest pride from fate, Or add one patriot to a sinking state;...