The Works of J.S. ...

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G. Faulkner, 1735
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Page 2 - Then the Bell rung, and I went down to put my Lady to Bed, And, God knows, I thought my Money was as safe as my Maidenhead. So when I came up again, I found my Pocket feel very light, But when I search'd, and miss'd my Purse, Lord! I thought I should have sunk outright: Lord! Madam, says Mary, how d'ye do? Indeed...
Page 77 - A father, and the nymph his child. That innocent delight he took To see the virgin mind her book, Was but the master's secret joy In school to hear the finest boy.
Page 41 - tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides. Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Page 21 - ... BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEWTREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID. la ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality. It...
Page 76 - Cadenus many things had writ : Vanessa much esteem'd his wit, And call'd for his poetic works : Meantime the boy in secret lurks ; And, while the book was in her hand, The urchin from his private stand Took aim, and shot with all his strength A dart of such prodigious length, It pierc'd the feeble volume through, And deep transfix'd her bosom too.
Page 76 - Vanessa, not in years a score, Dreams of a gown of forty-four; Imaginary charms can find In eyes with reading almost blind: Cadenus now no more appears Declin'd in health, advanc'd in years. She fancies music in his tongue; Nor farther looks, but thinks him young.
Page 444 - In all our modern critics' jargon : Then talk with more authentic face Of unities, in time and place; Get scraps of Horace from your friends, And have them, at your fingers...
Page 130 - His morning draughts till noon can swill, Among his brethren of the quill: With good roast beef his belly full, Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, Deep sunk in plenty and delight, What poet e'er could take his flight? Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat, What poet e'er could sing a note?
Page 41 - While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds ; he trembles from within, So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,) Laocoon struck the outside with his spear, And each imprison'd hero quak'd for fear.
Page 22 - Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last, Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon ; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night ; And then the hospitable...

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