Imatges de pàgina
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'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay;

I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.

And there forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die;

'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I.'

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Forbid it, heaven!' the hermit cried,

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And clasp'd her to his breast:

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The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, "Twas Edwin's self that prest.

'Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restor❜d to love and thee.

Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And ev'ry care resign;

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And shall we never, never part,

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My life-my all that's mine ?

'No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true;

The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin's too.'

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ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

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Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

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And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wond'ring neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

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The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied:

The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.

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FROM THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD'

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is-to die.

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EPILOGUE TO THE GOOD NATUR'D MAN'

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure; Thus on the stage, our play-wrights still depend For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend, Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, And make full many a bitter pill go down. Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, And teas'd each rhyming fiend to help him' out. 'An Epilogue-things can't go on without it; It could not fail, would you but set about it.' 'Young man,' cries one-a bard laid up in clover'Alas, young man, my writing days are over; Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw; not I: Your brother Doctor there, perhaps, may try.' 'What I dear Sir,' the Doctor interposes;

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'What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!
No, no; I've other contests to maintain;
To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane:
Go, ask your manager.' 'Who, me? Your pardon;
Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden.' 20
Our Author's friends, thus plac'd at happy distance,
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.
As some unhappy wight, at some new play,

At the Pit door stands elbowing a way,

While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 25

He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug ;

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