By haughty Celia spent in dressing;
The goddess from her chamber issues,
143 lines
Ye poets ragged and forlorn, Down from your garrets 
22 lines, 1 comment
Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons quelque chose, qui ne nous dé
484 lines, 2 comments
The Thresher Duck, could o'er the Q {-}{-}{-}{-}{-}{-} prevail, The Proverb says; No Fence against a Flayl.
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This day, whate'er the Fates decree, Shall still be kept with joy by me:
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Stella this day is thirty-four, (We shan't dispute a year or more:)
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Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.
18 lines, 1 comment
Charming oysters I cry:
My masters, come buy,
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All folks who pretend to religion and grace,
Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place:
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Desponding Phillis was endu'd
With ev'ry Talent of a Prude,
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The Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble,
Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble;
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Careful Observers may fortel the Hour
(By sure Prognosticks) when to dread a Show'r:
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As, when a lofty pile is raised,
We never hear the workmen praised,
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A lion sunk by time's decay,
Too feeble grown to hunt his prey,
38 lines, 1 comment
To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,
The humble petition of Frances Harris,
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Deprived of root, and branch and rind,
Yet flowers I bear of every kind:
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Her dead lady's joy and comfort,
Who departed this life
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Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane,
For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain;
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Let me thy Properties explain,
A rotten Cabin, dropping Rain;
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Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guess'd,
Though we all took it for a jest:
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A long-ear'd beast, and a field-house for cattle, Among the coals doth often rattle.[1]
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A WONDERFUL age Is now on the stage:
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Ah! Strephon, how can you despise Her, who without thy pity dies!
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All of us in one you'll find, Brethren of a wondrous kind; Yet among us all no brother
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All travellers at first incline Where'er they see the fairest sign
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All-ruling tyrant of the earth, To vilest slaves I owe my birth,
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An orator dismal of Nottinghamshire, Who has forty years let out his conscience to hire,
58 lines
APPLES
COME buy my fine wares,
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As when a beauteous nymph decays, We say she's past her dancing days;
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At Market-Hill, as well appears By chronicle of ancient date,
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