Written when the Author was sick. Somnus, pow’rful Deity, Mortals owe their Bliss to thee. How long shall I thy Absence mour… And when be bless’d in thy Return…

A courtier, summon’d hence of late… Was call’d to Minos’ Judgment Se… The Cretan Sage began the Charge… Recounted all his Crimes at large… His Insincerity, and Pride,

I beg your Scholar you’ll excuse, Who dares no more debase the Muse… My Mother says, If e’er she hears… I write again on worthless Peers, Whether they’re living Lords, or…

No more at Criticks, Ned, repine, Who say those Numbers are not thi… I own I was suspicious too, And thought the Verse too good fo… But since you say those Lines you…

May each new Year some new Perfec… Till all the Mother in the Daught… May’st Thou her Virtues to the W… And be what Henrietta was before! And when revolving Years mature t…

Tell me, my Patroness, and Friend… Can Age Parnassian Heights ascen… Sweet Poesy’s light Footsteps tra… Ah no! I must give up the Chace: When Time the Head hath silver’d…

All—bounteous Heav’n, Castalio cr… With bended Knees, and lifted Eye… When shall I have the Pow’r to bl… And raise up Merit in Distress? How do our Hearts deceive us here…

Uncommon Charms, I plainly see, Compleat the Fair for Tyranny. Then, lest your Form should make… Of Conquest, and of giving Pain, Those, whom your Beauties have en…

A sight like this, who can unmov’d… Impartial Muse, can’st thou with—… See the freed Captives hail their… And tread the Land of Liberty onc… See, as they pass, the crouding P…

Madam, I hear, and hear with Sorr… That we’re to lose Your Grace To… Nor you alone, but Lady Di. Where, thus deserted, shall I fly… Am I condemn’d to live in Pain,

I read in your delighted Face, The Nuptial Bands are ty’d: From me congratulate her Grace, Young Portland’s lovely Bride. Tell her, an humble, artless Muse

Let me the Honour soon obtain, For which I long have hop’d in va… Since I, alas! am now confin’d, Your Visit would be doubly kind. What Sorrows have I not to fear,

OUR master, in a fatal hour, Brought in this Rod, to shew his… O dreadful birch! O baleful tree! Thou instrument of tyranny! Thou deadly damp to youthful joys!

The Britons, in their Nature shy, View Strangers with a distant Eye… We think them partial and severe; And judge their Manners by their… Are undeceiv’d by Time alone;

Tho’ Rhyme serves the Thoughts of… It sets off the Sense of small Po… When I’ve written in Prose, I of… That my Sense, in a Jumble of Wo… In Verse, as in Armies, that marc…