Dick, thou'rt resolved, as I am told, Some strange arcana to unfold, And with the help of Buckley's[1] pen, To vamp the good old cause again: Which thou (such Burnet's shrewd advice is)...
Poor floating isle, tost on ill fortune's waves, Ordain'd by fate to be the land of slaves; Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand; Thou fix'd of old, be now the moving land!...
Virtue conceal'd within our breast Is inactivity at best: But never shall the Muse endure To let your virtues lie obscure; Or suffer Envy to conceal Your labours for the public weal....
Patron of the tuneful throng, O! too nice, and too severe! Think not, that my country song Shall displease thy honest ear. Chosen strains I proudly bring, Which the Muses' sacred choir,...
Harley, the nation's great support, Returning home one day from court, His mind with public cares possest, All Europe's business in his breast, Observed a parson near Whitehall,...
I often wish'd that I had clear, For life, six hundred pounds a-year, A handsome house to lodge a friend, A river at my garden's end, A terrace walk, and half a rood Of land, set out to plant a wood....
Resolve me this, ye happy dead, Who've lain some hundred years in bed, From every persecution free That in this wretched life we see; Would ye resume a second birth, And choose once more to live on earth?
From a town that consists of a church and a steeple, With three or four houses, and as many people, There went an Address in great form and good order, Composed, as 'tis said, by Will Crowe, their Recorder.[1]...
By something form'd, I nothing am, Yet everything that you can name; In no place have I ever been, Yet everywhere I may be seen; In all things false, yet always true, I'm still the same - but ever new....
We fly from luxury and wealth, To hardships, in pursuit of health; From generous wines, and costly fare, And dozing in an easy-chair; Pursue the goddess Health in vain, To find her in a country scene,...
If Noisy Tom[1] should in the senate prate, "That he would answer both for church and state; And, farther, to demonstrate his affection, Would take the kingdom into his protection;"...
As a thorn bush, or oaken bough, Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow, Above the door, at country fair, Betokens entertainment there; So bays on poets' brows have been Set, for a sign of wit within....
The sage, who said he should be proud Of windows in his breast,[1] Because he ne'er a thought allow'd That might not be confest; His window scrawl'd by every rake, His breast again would cover,...