Alexander's Feast; Or, The Power Of Music
‘Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip’s warlike son – Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with
Mac Flecknoe
All human things are subject to decay, And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey: This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young Was call’d to empire, and had govern’d long: In prose and verse, was
Farewell, Ungrateful Traitor!
Farewell, ungrateful traitor! Farewell, my perjur’d swain! Let never injur’d woman Believe a man again. The pleasure of possessing Surpasses all expressing, But ’tis too short a blessing, And love too long a pain.
Song From An Evening's Love
After the pangs of a desperate lover, When day and night I have sighed all in vain, Ah, what a pleasure it is to discover In her eyes pity, who causes my pain! When
Hidden Flame
Feed a flame within, which so torments me That it both pains my heart, and yet contains me: ‘Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it, That I had rather die than
To The Pious Memory Of The Accomplished Young Lady Mrs. Anne Killigrew
Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the Blest; Whose palms, new pluck’d from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rest: Whether,
Happy The Man
Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today. Be fair or foul or
To The Memory Of Mr Oldham
Farewell, too little and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own; For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine. One
Troilus And Cressida
Can life be a blessing, Or worth the possessing, Can life be a blessing if love were away? Ah no! though our love all night keep us waking, And though he torment us with
Your Hay It Is Mow'd, And Your Corn Is Reap'd
(Comus.) Your hay it is mow’d, and your corn is reap’d; Your barns will be full, and your hovels heap’d: Come, my boys, come; Come, my boys, come; And merrily roar out Harvest Home.