The New Foundling Hospital for Wit: Being a Collection of Fugitive Pieces, in Prose and Verse, Not in Any Other Collection. With Several Pieces Never Before Published ... in Six Volumes, Volumen4

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John Almon
J. Debrett, opposite Burlington House, in Piccadilly, 1786
 

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Página 147 - Require the borrow'd gloss of art ? Speak not of fate : ah ! change the theme, And talk of odours, talk of wine, Talk of the flowers that round us bloom : 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream ; To love and joy thy thoughts confine, Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.
Página 147 - That rosy cheek, that lily hand, • Would give thy poet more delight Than all Bocara's vaunted gold, Than all the gems of Samarcand. Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, And bid thy pensive heart be glad, Whate'er the frowning zealots say : Tell them, their Eden cannot show A stream so clear as Rocnabad, A bower so sweet as Mosellay.
Página 82 - What is grandeur, what is power? Heavier toil, superior pain. What the bright reward we gain ? The grateful memory of the good. Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, The bee's collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The still small voice of gratitude.
Página 147 - tis all a dream; To love and joy thy thoughts confine, Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. Beauty has such resistless power, That even the chaste Egyptian dame...
Página 29 - With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of need To aim their shafts aright.
Página 26 - Neither in person or in coin ; Yet contemplation is a thing That renders what I have not, mine : My king from me what adamant can part, Whom I do wear engraven on my heart...
Página 147 - While mufick charms the ravim'd ear, While fparkling cups delight our eyes, Be gay ; and fcorn the frowns of age. What cruel anfwer have I heard ! And yet, by heav'n, I love thee ftill : Can aught be cruel from thy lip ? Yet fay, how fell that bitter word From lips which ftreams of...
Página 29 - tis true ; ^ Yet heav'n be prais'd ! I am not you : " My bead's with country notions fraught t .*. ** Notions (to you) not worth a groat" Aided by every virtuous art^ • A generous youth has won my heart. Yet never did I yield my charms, Till honour led me to his arms. My charms I never bafely fold ; I am no proftitute for gold ; On my own rents I liv'd before, Nor has my William added more. Wealth is our fcorn : our humble labours Aim but toferve, or fave our neighbours.
Página 21 - So have I feen the Tory race Long in the pouts for want of place, Never in humour, never well, Wifhing for what they dar'd not tell ; Their heads with...

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