Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!
And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.