Happy and free, securely blest
Has Winter caus'd thee, Friend, to change thy Seat Heav'n save ye Gallants, and this hopeful Age He who cou'd view the Book of Destiny
He who in impious times untainted stood
He who writ this, not without Pains and Thought High State and Honours to others impart
Hold! are you mad? you damn'd, confounded Dog How anxious are our Cares, and yet how vain How Blessed is He, who leads a Country Life How comes it, Gentlemen, that, now-a-days. How happy in his low degree How happy the Lover
How unhappy a Lover am I.
How wretched is the Fate of those who write
I'm thinking (and it almost makes me mad) I beg a Boon, that, e're you all disband
I Feed a Flame within which so torments me
I had forgot one half, I do protest
I've had to-day a Dozen Billet-Doux
I look'd and saw within the Book of Fate
I never did on cleft Pernassus dream
I Quak'd at heart for fear the Royal Fashion I think, or hope at least, the Coast is clear. If for thy self thou wilt not watch thy Whore If streaming Blood my fatal Letter stain If yet there be a few that take delight In Cupid's school whoe'er wou'd take Degree In Days of old, there liv'd, of mighty Fame
New Ministers, when first they get in place. No, no, poor suff'ring Heart, no Change endeavour No poor Dutch Peasant, wing'd with all his Fear Nor him alone produc'd the fruitful Queen Now, in good Manners, nothing shou'd be sed Now, Luck for us, and a kind hearty Pit Now turning from the wintry Signs, the Sun Now with a general Peace the World was blest
O sylvan Prophet! whose eternal Fame Of all Dramatique Writing, Comick Wit Of all our Antick Sights and Pageantry Of all the Cities in Romanian Lands Of ancient use to Poets it belongs
Of Bodies chang'd to various Forms I sing Of gentle Blood, his Parents only Treasure
Oft has our Poet wisht, this happy Seat
Oh Last and Best of Scots! who did'st maintain Oh Sight, the Mother of Desires
Old as I am, for Ladies Love unfit
On a Bank, beside a Willow
Once I beheld the fairest of her Kind
Our Play's a Parallel: The Holy League
Our Vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes care
Perhaps the Parson stretch'd a point too far Phoebus, God belov'd by men
Poets, like Disputants, when Reasons fail Poets, like Lawful Monarchs, rul'd the Stage Poets, your Subjects, have their Parts assign' Poor Mortals that are clog'd with Earth below Prologues, like Bells to Churches, toul you in Priam, to whom the Story was unknown Pygmalion loathing their lascivious Life Round thy Coasts, Fair Nymph of Britain
Save ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopefull way See, my lov'd Britons, see your Shakespeare rise Self-love (which never rightly understood) Since Faction ebbs, and Rogues grow out of Fashion Since Men, like Beasts, each others Prey were made So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet So Joseph, yet a Youth, expounded well So may th' auspicious Queen of Love So much Religion in your Name doth dwell So, on Mæander's banks, when death is nigh So shipwrackt Passengers escape to Land Some have expected, from our Bills to-day Stay, Stranger, stay, and drop one Tear Still shall I hear, and never quit the Score Success, which can no more than beauty last Sure there's a dearth of Wit in this dull Town Sure there's a Fate in Plays; and 'tis in vain Sylvia the fair, in the bloom of Fifteen
Tell me Thirsis, tell your Anguish
The Bard who first adorn'd our Native Tongue The Blast of common Censure cou'd I fear
The Chiefs were set; the Soldiers crown'd the Field The Day approach'd when Fortune shou'd decide The Day is come, I see it rise
The Fame of this, perhaps, through Crete had flown The fam'd Italian Muse, whose Rhymes advance. The Grecian Wits, who Satyr first began The Judge remov'd, tho he's no more My Lord The lab'ring Bee, when his sharp Sting is gone The longest Tyranny that ever sway'd. Th' unhappy man who once has trail'd a Pen The Wilde Gallant has quite play'd out his Game
The wrath of Peleus Son, O Muse, resound Thee, Sovereign God, our grateful Accents praise There liv'd, as Authors tell, in Days of Yore These cruel Critiques put me into Passion These Prodigies affect the pious Prince. These some old Man sees wanton in the Air Thespis, the first Professor of our Art.
They who have best succeeded on the Stage They who write Ill, and they who ne'r durst write This day, the Poet, bloodily inclin'd
This jeast was first of t' other houses making Thou hast inspired me with thy soul, and I Thou youngest Virgin-Daughter of the Skies Tho' Actors cannot much of Learning boast Though what our Prologue said was sadly true Three Poets, in three distant Ages born Thus Achelous ends: His Audience hear
Thus have my Spouse and I inform'd the Nation Thus having said, brave Hector went to see. Thus like a Sayler by a Tempest hurl'd Thus long my Grief has kept me dumb Thus you the sad Catastrophe have seen 'Tis hard, my Friend, to write in such an Age 'Tis much desir'd, you Judges of the Town 'Tis pleasant, safely to behold from shore To all and singular in this full Meeting To Amaryllis Love compells my way To say this Comedy pleas'd long ago To you who live in chill Degree True Wit has seen its best Days long ago 'Twas at the Royal Feast, for Persia won 'Twas on a Joyless and a Gloomy Morn Twelve Spartan Virgins, noble, young, and fair Two Houses join'd, two Poets to a Play? We act by Fits and Starts, like drowning Men Well then, the promis'd Hour is come at last Were none of you, Gallants, e'er driven so hard Were you but half so wise as y'are severe Were you but half so wise as you're severe What Flocks of Critiques hover here to-day What Greece, when learning flourish'd, onely knew What has this Bugbear Death to frighten Man What Nostradame, with all his Art, can guess What Sophocles could undertake alone What State of Life can be so blest
What think you, Sirs, was't not all well enough?
What vast Prerogatives, my Gallus, are
When Athens all the Grecian State did guide
When factious Rage to cruel Exile drove When first our Poet set himself to write When first the Ark was landed on the Shore When for our sakes your Heroe you resign'd When loose Epistles violate Chast Eyes Wherever I am, and whatever I doe Whether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian Shore While flattering Crowds officiously appear While Arcite lives in Bliss, the Story turns While Norman Tancred in Salerno reign'd
Who ever saw a noble sight
Who-e're thou art, whose forward years are bent Why should a foolish Marriage Vow With inauspicious love, a wretched Swain
With leering Looks, Bull-fac'd, and freckl'd fair With sickly Actors and an old House too Women like us (passing for Men) you'l cry
Ye blust'ring Brethren of the Skies
Ye Sacred Relicks which your Marble keep You charm'd me not with that fair face You've seen a Pair of faithful Lovers die
You pleasing Dreams of Love and sweet delight You to whom Victory we owe Young I am, and yet unskill'd
Your Hay it is Mow'd, and your Corn is Reap'd Your husband will be with us at the Treat.
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