Vital spark of heav’nly flame! Quit, O quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, f
Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The
I know the thing that's most uncommon; (Envy be silent and attend!) I know a Reasonable Woman, Ha
I But our Great Turks in wit must reign alone And ill can bear a Brother on the Throne. II
NOTHING so true as what you once let fall, "Most Women have no Characters at all." Matter too so
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Ti
I. Silence! coeval with Eternity; Thou wert, ere Nature's-self began to be, 'Twas one vast Nothi
Cardelia. Smilinda. Cardelia. The Basset-Table spread, the Tallier come; Why stays Smilinda i
Fain would my Muse the flow'ry Treasures sing, And humble glories of the youthful Spring; Where op
I. Flutt'ring spread thy purple Pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my Heart; I a Slave in thy Dominions
I. To one fair lady out of Court, And two fair ladies in, Who think the Turk and Pope a sport,
INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to
Strophe I. Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought; Groves, where immortal Sages taught; Where he
Women ben full of Ragerie, Yet swinken not sans secresie. Thilke Moral shall ye understond, From
Awake, my ST. JOHN!(1) leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of Kings. Let us (
Dear, damn'd distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye crit
Semichorus. Oh Tyrant Love! hast thou possest The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast? Wisdom a
Muse, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends, And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends. Let Cr
When simple Macer, now of high renown, First fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town, 'Twas all th' Am
Ne Rubeam, Pingui donatus Munere (Horace, Epistles II.i.267) While you, great patron of mankind, s
I am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you? Alexander Pope
Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air,
When wise Ulysses, from his native coast Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss'd, Arrived
First in these fields I try the sylvan strains, Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains: F
In vain you boast Poetic Names of yore, And cite those Sapho's we admire no more: Fate doom'd the
Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild; In Wit, a Man; Simplicity, a Child: With native Humour temp
When other fair ones to the shades go down, Still Chloe, Flavin, Delia, stay in town: Those ghost
Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air
Here, shunning idleness at once and praise, This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise; The glitte