The Works of the English Poets: Rowe; Tickell

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Página 188 - Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ; In arms who triumph'd, or in arts excell'd ; Chiefs, grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood; Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; Just men, by whom impartial laws were given ; And saints who taught, and led, the way to Heaven...
Página 190 - There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.
Página 51 - Ghosts.* r \ESPAIRING beside a clear stream, A shepherd forsaken was laid ; And while a false nymph was his theme, A willow supported his head. The wind, that blew over the plain, To his sighs with a sigh did reply : And the brook, in return to his pain, Ran mournfully murmuring by.
Página 124 - Broke forth the prophet without breeches. " Into what ills betray'd, by thee, This ancient kingdom do I...
Página 192 - Ah Colin! give not her thy vows, Vows due to me alone: Nor thou, fond maid, receive his...
Página 53 - ... nymphs of the plain, And see me laid low in the ground. The last humble boon that I crave, Is to shade me with cypress and yew ; And when she looks down on my grave, Let her own that her shepherd was true. "'Then to her new love let her go, And deck her in golden array, Be finest at...
Página 95 - Lash'd in thy satire, the penurious cit Laughs at himself, and finds no harm in wit: From felon gamesters the raw squire is free, And Britain owes her rescued oaks to thee.
Página 108 - Bourbon's woes (hall fill the ftory'd wall ; Heirs of thy blood fhall o'er their bounteous board Fix Europe's guard, thy monumental fword ; Banners, that oft have wav'd on conquer'd walls, And trumps, that drown'd the groans of gafping Gauls.
Página 191 - Ye perjur'd swains! beware. Three times, all in the dead of night, A bell was heard to ring, And, shrieking at her window thrice, The raven flapp'd his wing.
Página 52 - I have skill to complain, Though the Muses my temples have crowned ; What though, when they hear my soft strain, The Virgins sit weeping around; Ah ! COLIN ! thy hopes are in vain ! Thy pipe and thy laurel resign! Thy False One inclines to a Swain, Whose music is sweeter than thine!

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