The Poetical Works of Will. Shenstone

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Seite 51 - But a sweet-brier entwines it around, Not my fields, in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.
Seite 55 - Amid nymphs of an higher degree: It is not for me to explain How fair, and how fickle they be. Alas ! from the day that we met, What hope of an end to my woes? When I cannot endure to forget The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain: The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me.
Seite 53 - She is ev'ry way pleafing to me. 0 you that have been of her train, Come and join in my amorous lays ; 1 could lay down my life for the fwain, That will fing but a fong in her praife.
Seite 52 - I have heard her with sweetness unfold How that pity was due to a dove, That it ever attended the bold ; And she call'd it the sister of love. But her words such a pleasure convey, So much I her accents adore, Let her speak, and whatever she say, Methinks, I should love her the more.
Seite 32 - But then it was an age ago—- It ne'er will be my lot again— I won it of a baby then — Give me an ace of trumps and fee, Our NED will beat me with a three. 'Tis all by luck that things are carry'd — He'll fuffer for it, when he's marry'd.
Seite 94 - And must be bought, though penury betide. The plumb all azure and the nut all brown, And here each season do those cakes abide, Whose honour'd names th* inventive city own, Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known.
Seite 52 - And the fhepherds as gentle as ours ? The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the valleys as fine ; The fwains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine.
Seite 97 - Heaven ! of woes like ours. And let us, let us weep no more." The dismal scene was o'er, and past, The lover's mournful hearse...
Seite 49 - What it is to admire and to love, And to leave her we love and admire. Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each evening repel ; Alas ! I am faint and forlorn ; I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.
Seite 88 - And, in thofe elfins' ears, would oft deplore The times, when truth by popifh rage did bleed ; And tortious death was true devotion's meed ; And fimple faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image place her creed ; And lawny faints in fmould'ring flames did bum : Ah ! deareft Lord, forefend, thilk days Humid e'er return.

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