#Augustan
Celia, we know, is sixty—five, Yet Celia’s face is seventeen; Thus winter in her breast must liv… While summer in her face is seen. How cruel Celia’s fate, who hence
Of gentle Philips will I ever sin… With gentle Philips shall the val… My numbers too for ever will I va… With gentle Budgell and with gent… Or if in ranging of the names I j…
Awake, my St. John! leave all mea… To low ambition, and the pride of… Let us (since life can little more… Than just to look about us and to… Expatiate free o’er all this scene…
You know where you did despise (Tother day) my little Eyes, Little Legs, and little Thighs, And some things, of little Size, You know where.
Tho’ Artemisia talks, by fits, Of councils, classics, fathers, wi… Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Loc… Yet in some things methinks she fa… 'Twere well if she would pare her…
What beck’ning ghost, along the mo… Invites my steps, and points to yo… 'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bo… Why dimly gleams the visionary swo… Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly!…
Here, shunning idleness at once an… This radiant pile nine rural siste… The glittering emblem of each spot… Clear as her soul and shining as h… Beauty which nature only can impar…
Shut, shut the door, good John! f… Tie up the knocker, say I’m sick,… The dog—star rages! nay 'tis past… All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let… Fire in each eye, and papers in ea…
What dire offence from am’rous cau… What mighty contests rise from tri… I sing—This verse to Caryl, Muse… This, ev’n Belinda may vouchsafe… Slight is the subject, but not so…
While Celia’s Tears make sorrow b… Proud Grief sits swelling in her… The Sun, next those the fairest l… Thus from the Ocean first did ris… And thus thro’ Mists we see the S…
Resign’d to live, prepar’d to die, With not one sin, but poetry, This day Tom’s fair account has r… (Without a blot) to eighty—one. Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
The Mighty Mother, and her son wh… The Smithfield muses to the ear o… I sing. Say you, her instruments… Called to this work by Dulness, J… You by whose care, in vain decried…
Lycidas. Thyrsis, the music of that murm’ri… Is not so mournful as the strains… Nor rivers winding thro’ the vales… So sweetly warble, or so smoothly…
With scornful mien, and various to… Fantastic vain, and insolently fai… Grandeur intoxicates her giddy bra… She looks ambition, and she moves… Far other carriage grac’d her virg…
Phryne had talents for mankind, Open she was, and unconfin’d, Like some free port of trade: Merchants unloaded here their frei… And Agents from each foreign stat…