Pope's Pastorals and a Discourse on pastoral

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Nella stamperia di Gennaro Giaccio, 1767 - English poetry - 115 pages
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Page xxvi - twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe ; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know. Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy : Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.
Page 78 - Sylvans cypress garlands bring: Ye weeping Loves, the stream with myrtles hide, And break your bows, as when Adonis died! And with your golden darts, now useless grown, Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone: 'Let Nature change, let Heav'n and Earth deplore, Fair Daphne's dead, and Love is now no more!
Page 118 - GENTLY stir and blow the fire, Lay the mutton down to roast ; Dress it quickly, I desire ; — In the dripping put a toast, That I hunger may remove : Mutton is the meat I love. On the dresser see it lie, Oh, the charming white and red ! Finer meat ne'er met my eye, On the sweetest grass it fed : Let the jack go quickly round, — Let me have it nicely brown
Page 28 - Love, the sole disease thou canst not cure. Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams, Defence from Phoebus', not from Cupid's beams. To you I mourn, nor to the deaf I sing, The woods shall answer, and their echo ring.
Page 12 - The other modern (who it muft be confefled hath a knack of verfifying) hath it as follows : lStreph. Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain, Then, hid in fhades, eludes her eager fwain ; But feigns a laugh, to fee me fearch around, And by that laugh the willing fair is found.
Page 56 - The birds fhall ceafe to tune their evening fong. The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move. And ftreams to murmur, ere I ceafe to love. Not bubbling fountains to the thirfty fwain, Not...
Page xxiv - Light ? Which I can ne'er enjoy. What is the blessing of the sight ? O, tell your poor blind boy! 'You talk of wondrous things you see, You say,
Page xxviii - Of my free foul, afpifing to the height Of nature and unclouded fields of light ; My next defire is, void of care and ftrife, To lead a foft, fecure, inglorious life. A country cottage near a cryftal flood, A winding valley, and a lofty wood. Some god conduct me to the facred (hades. Where bacchanals are fung by Spartan maids, Or lift me high to Hemus...
Page 56 - Not fhow'rs to larks, or fun-mine to the bee, Are half fo charming as thy fight to me. Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away ! Come, Delia, come ; ah, why this long delay ? Thro' rocks and caves the name of Delia founds ;. Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Page 84 - Fair Daphne's dead, and mufic is no more ! Her fate is whifper'd by. the gentle breeze, And told in fighs to all the trembling trees ) The trembling trees, in ev'ry plain and wood, Her fate remurmur to the filver flood ; The filver flood, fo lately calm, appears Swcll'd with new...

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