A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
In other things the knowing artist may, Judge better than the people; but a play, (Made for delight, and for no other use), If you approve it not, has no excuse.
In such green palaces the first kings reign'd, Slept in their shades, and angels entertain'd; With such old counsellors they did advise, And by frequenting sacred groves grew wise.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Poets that lasting marble seek Must come in Latin or in Greek.
So all we know of what they do above, Is that they happy are, and that they love.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.
The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.
The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest.
The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.
To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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