Strophe I My two-fold Book! single in show But double in Contents, Neat, but not curiously adorn’d Which in his early youth,

Oh that those lips had language!… With me but roughly since I heard… Those lips are thine– thy own swee… The same that oft in childhood sol… Voice only fails, else, how distin…

My halting Muse, that dragg’st by… Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy… And lik’st that pace expressive of… Not less than Diopeia’s sprightli… When in the dance she beats with m…

Did not my Muse (what can she les… Perceive her own unworthiness, Could she by some well-chosen them… But hope to merit your esteem, She would not thus conceal her lay…

In language warm as could be breat… Thy picture speaks the original my… Not by those looks that indicate t… They only speak thee friend of all… Expression here more soothing stil…

I sing the Sofa. I who lately san… Truth, Hope, and Charity, and tou… The solemn chords, and with a trem… Escaped with pain from that advent… Now seek repose upon an humbler th…

To be remembered thus is fame, And in the first degree; And did the few like her the same, The press might sleep for me. So Homer, in the memory stored

Could Homer come himself, distres… And tune his harp at Rhedicina’s… The rich old vixen would exclaim,… ‘Begone! no tramper gets a farthin…

Here lies one who never drew Blood himself, yet many slew; Gave the gun its aim, and figure Made in field, yet ne’er pulled tr… Armed men have gladly made

‘Oh most delightful hour by man Experienced here below, The hour that terminates his span, His folly and his woe! ’Worlds should not bribe me back t…

Love is the Lord whom I obey, Whose will transported I perform; The centre of my rest, my stay, Love’s all in all to me, myself a… For uncreated charms I burn,

(Exodus, XVII.15) By whom was David taught To aim the deadly blow, When he Goliath fought, And laid the Gittite low?

You give your cheks a rosy stain, With washes dye your hair; But paint and washes both are vain To give a youthful air. Those wrinkles mock your daily toi…

I sing of a journey to Clifton, We would have perform’d if we coul… Without cart or barrow to lift on Poor Mary and me through the mud; Slee, sla, slud,

Learn ye nations of the earth The condition of your birth, Now be taught your feeble state, Know, that all must yield to Fate… If the mournful Rover, Death,