Epistles on several occasions. Tales. Eclogues. Miscellanies. Dione, a pastoral tragedy

H. Lintot, J. and R. Tonson and S. Draper, 1745
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Página 127 - 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.
Página 126 - Oh ! where shall I my true love find ? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, Does my sweet William sail among the crew ?" William, who high upon the yard, Rock'd with the billows to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard, He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below. The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.
Página 67 - Pride; And if Religion crack her Notions, Lock up her volumes of Devotions; But if for Man her Rage prevail, Bar her the sight of Creatures Male.
Página 76 - O check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate, Think on the murders of a five-bar gate ! Yet prodigal of life, the leap he tries, Low in...
Página 172 - True conftancy no time, no power, can move. He that hath known to change, ne'er knew to love.
Página 75 - These stories which descend from son to son, The forward boy shall one day make his own. Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws nigh, That calls the darling from thy tender eye; How shall his spirit brook the rigid rules, And the long tyranny of grammar schools?
Página 57 - Who chofe with cautious ftep th' uncertain way ; And now he checks the rein, and halts to hear If any noife foretold a village near. At length from far a...
Página 127 - They'll tell, the failors, when away, In ev'ry port a miftrefs find : Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee fo, For thou art prefent wherefoe'er I go : If to fair India's coaft we fail, Thy eyes are feen in diamonds bright ; Thy breath is Afric's fpicy gale, Thy fkin is ivory fo white : Thus every beauteous objecT. that I view, Wakes in my foul fome charms of lovely Sue. Tho...
Página 124 - Tis the restraint that whets our appetite. Behold the beasts who range the forests free, Behold the birds who fly from tree to tree ; In their amours see Nature's power appear ! And do they love ? Yes — One month in the year. Were these the pleasures of the Golden reign ? And did free Nature thus instruct the swain ? I envy not, ye nymphs ! your amorous bowers, Such harmless swains ! I'm even content with ours.
Página 113 - Oh ! lead me to some melancholy cave, To lull my sorrows in a living grave ; From the dark rock where dashing waters fall, And creeping ivy hangs the craggy wall, Where I may waste in tears my hours away, And never know the seasons or the day. Die, die, Panthea !— fly this hateful grove, For what is life without the swain I love ?

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