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
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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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