Here shunning idleness at once and praise, This radiant pile nine rural sisters[130] raise; The glittering emblem of each spotless dame, Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame;...
So when Curll's Stomach the strong Drench o'ercame, (Infus'd in Vengenance of insulted Fame) Th' Avenger sees, with a delighted Eye, His long Jaws open, and his Colour fly;...
When simple Macer, now of high renown, First fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town, 'Twas all th' Ambition his high soul could feel, To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele....
When simple Macer, now of high renown, First sought a poet's fortune in the town, 'Twas all the ambition his high soul could feel, To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele....
The captain, some time after his return, being retired to Mr Sympson's in the country, Mrs Gulliver, apprehending from his late behaviour some estrangement of his affections, writes him the following expostulatory, soothing, an...
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. ...
Descend ye Nine! descend and sing; The breathing instruments inspire, Wake into voice each silent string, And sweep the sounding lyre! In a sadly-pleasing strain...
O gate, how cam'st thou here? Gate. I was brought from Chelsea last year, Batter'd with wind and weather. Inigo Jones put me together; Sir Hans Sloane Let me alone: Burlington brought me hither.
When other fair ones to the shades go down, Still Chloe, Flavin, Delia, stay in town: Those ghosts of beauty wandering here reside, And haunt the places where their honour died.
Thou who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent wave Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave; Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil, And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill,...
So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along: But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died.
Authors the world and their dull brains have traced To fix the ground where Paradise was placed; Mind not their learned whims and idle talk; Here, here's the place where these bright angels walk.
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:...
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:...