The British poets, including translations, Volum 33

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Pàgina 160 - O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss off that falling tear ; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.
Pàgina 51 - Vermine, home I quickly sped, And on the Hearth the milk-white Embers spread. Slow crawl'd the Snail, and if I right can spell, In the soft Ashes mark'da curious L: Oh, may this wondrous Omen lucky prove! For L is found in Lubberkin and Love. With my sharp Heel I three times mark the Ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around.
Pàgina 28 - As one who, long in populous city pent, Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air, Forth issuing on a summer's morn to breathe Among the pleasant villages and farms Adjoin'd, from each thing met conceives delight ; The smell of grain, or tedded grass, or kine, Or dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound...
Pàgina 64 - ... stalls with glittering toys are laid, The various fairings of the country maid. Long silken laces hang upon the twine, And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine; How the tight lass knives, combs, and scissors spies, And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes.
Pàgina 175 - Though seeming as the turtle kind. And like the Gospel true. If I and Molly could agree, Let who would take Peru ! Great as an emp'ror should I be, And richer than a Jew. Till you grow tender as a chick, I'm dull as any post : Let us like burs together stick, And warm as any toast.
Pàgina 54 - pothecary's shop I went, And in love powder all my money spent: Behap what will, next Sunday, after prayers, When to the alehouse Lubberkin repairs, These golden flies into his mug I'll throw, And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow.
Pàgina 174 - But she, insensible of that, Sound as a top can sleep. Hard is her heart as flint or stone, She laughs to see me pale, And merry as a grig is grown, And brisk as bottled ale. The God of Love at her approach Is busy as a bee. Hearts sound as any bell or roach, Are smit and sigh like me.
Pàgina 101 - Tis the sublime that hurts the Critic's ease ; Write nonsense, and he reads and sleeps in peace. Were Prior, Congreve, Swift and Pope unknown, Poor slander-selling Curll would be undone. He who would free from malice pass his days, Must live obscure, and never merit praise.
Pàgina 108 - China's the passion of her soul; A cup, a plate, a dish, a bowl, Can kindle wishes in her breast, Inflame with joy, or break her rest.
Pàgina 159 - Oh ! where shall I my true love find ! Tell me, ye jovial sailors ! tell me true, If my sweet William sails among the crew.

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