Selection of Poems ...

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Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, 1808
 

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Page 253 - A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. ' A belt of straw and ivy buds With coral clasps and amber studs : And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.
Page 97 - Content I live, this is my stay; I seek no more than may suffice; I press to bear no haughty sway; Look, what I lack my mind supplies. Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.
Page 93 - Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend ; This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands ; And having nothing, yet hath all.
Page 392 - Going to the Wars Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. 1 Imprisoned or caged. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.
Page 254 - Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love.
Page 259 - I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Page 93 - HOW happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill...
Page 297 - Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind, Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find : ' Tis then no matter how things go. Or who's our friend or who's our foe.
Page 338 - No, Sir ; there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn.
Page 98 - Some have too much, yet still do crave; I little have, and seek no more. They are but poor, though much they have, And I am rich with little store; They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; They lack, I leave; they pine, I live. I laugh not at another's loss, I grudge not at another's gain...

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