Poets From England

"Cedant arma togæ, concedat laurea linguæ."

"The Woolf jettes in Weathers felles."

"The real Simon Pure."

"Fill it up, about ship wheel it, Close to our lips a brimmer join: Where's the tempest now, who feels it? None — the danger's drown'd in wine."

"One wide water all around us: All above us one black sky; Different deaths at once surround us: Hark! what means that dreadful cry?"

"He is forced to go whom the devil drives."

"After this proud foe subduing, When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin, And for England sham'd in me."

"Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer! List, ye landsmen, all to me; Messmates, hear a brother sailor Sing the dangers of the sea."

"Pleasure is a sweet tickling of sense, with a present joy."

"The Syrens song is the Saylers wrack."

"To have fall'n, my country crying, He has play'd an English part, Had been better far than dying Of a griev'd and broken heart."

"Heed, oh heed! my fatal story, I am Hosier's injur'd ghost; You who now have purchas'd glory At this place where I was lost."

"Sent in this foul clime to languish Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish, Not in glorious battle slain."

"What, for us, are all distractions of men's fellowship and smiles? What, for us, the goddess Pleasure, with her meretricious wiles?"

"As, near Porto Bello lying, On the gently swelling flood, At midnight, with streamers flying, Our triumphant navy rode."

"Hence with all my train attending From their oozy tombs below, Through the hoary foam ascending Here I feed my constant woe."

"After-wittes are ever best."

"The Harpies have Virgins faces, and vultures Talentes."

"Poets are the whetstones of wit."

"Hyena speakes like a friend, and devoures like a Foe."

""Gods me! how now! what present have we here?” “A Book that stood in peril of the press; But now it’s past those pikes, and doth appear To keep the lookers on from heaviness.” “What stuff contains it?”—“Fustian, perfect spruce. Wit’s gallimalfry, or wit fried in steaks.” “From whom came it, a God’s name?”—“From his Muse, (Oh do not tell!) that still your favour seeks.” “And who is that?”—“Truth that is I.”—“What I? I per se I, great I, you would say.”—“No! Great I indeed you well may say; but I Am little i, the least of all the row.”"

"Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light, I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night."

"Reach me down my Tycho Brahé, — I would know him when we meet, When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet."

"All policy’s allowed in war and love."

"That man is happy in his share, Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed, Whose Necessaries bound his Care, And honest Labour makes his Bed."

"Woman, man’s greatest woe, or bliss, Does ofter far, than serve, enslave, And with the Magick of a Kiss, Destroys whom she was made to save."

"The Shadows now so long do grow, That Brambles like tall Cedars show, Mole-hills seem Mountains, and the Ant Appears a monstrous Elephant."

"All done, all fled, and now we faint and tire— The Feast is over and the lamps expire! ... All dim, all pale—so lift me on the pyre— The Feast is over and the lamps expire!"

"Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, We, who improve his golden hours, By sweet experience know That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good A paradise below."

"... She cries I doe not love her, And tells me of her Honor; Then have I no way to disprove her, And my true passion to discover, But streight to fall upon her."

"To-morrow, didst thou say? Methought I heard Horatio say, to-morrow. Go to — I will not hear of it — to-morrow! ’Tis a sharper that stakes his penury Against thy plenty — who takes thy ready cash, And pays thee naught but wishes, hopes, and promises, The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt, That gulls the easy creditor! to-morrow! It is a period nowhere to be found In all the hoary registers of time, Unless perchance in the fool’s calendar. Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society With those that own it. No, my Horatio, ’Tis fancy’s child, and folly is its father: Wrought on such stuff as dreams are; and baseless As the fantastic visions of the evening."

"Arrest the present moments; For be assur'd they are all arrant tell-tales; And though their flight be silent, and their path trackless As the wing'd couriers of the air, They post to heaven, and there record their folly — Because, tho' station'd on the important watch, Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel, Didst let them pass unnotic'd, unimprov'd. And know, for that thou slumber'st on the guard, Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar For every fugitive: and when thou thus Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal Of hood-wink'd justice, who shall tell thy audit? Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio, Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings; 'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain. Oh! let it not elude thy grasp, but, like The good old patriarch upon record, Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee."

"No, hang me if I ever marry, Till Womankind grow stancher, I do delight delights to vary, And love not in one Hulk to tarry, But only Trim and Launch her."

"My state is more advanc’d than when I first attempted thee; I su’d to be a Servant then, But now to be made free."

"My infant love could humbly wait, When young it scarce knew how To plead; but grown to Man's estate, He is impatient now."

"Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull Once of ethereal spirit full! This narrow cell was Life's retreat; This place was Thought's mysterious seat! What beauteous pictures fill'd that spot, What dreams of pleasure, long forgot! Nor Love, nor Joy, nor Hope, nor Fear, Has left one trace, one record here."

"Oh, tis a way that spoiles things haply good When itching youngsters crop themselves i'th bud, And so prove rotten before ripe, to win't, That they may have their names but seene in print."

"Let's eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us, 'Tis certain, Post mortem Nulla voluptas."

"Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown'd And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground... Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense, Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence."

"We'll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly, Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy: Fish-dinners will make a lass spring like a flea, Dame Venus, love's lady, Was born of the sea."

"A faire woman is a paradise to the eye, a purgatorye to the purse, and a hell to the soule."

"Oh, Woman! Woman! thou art formed to bless The heart of restless Man, to chase his care, And charm existence by thy loveliness; Bright as the sun-beam, as the morning fair, If but thy foot fall on a wilderness, Flowers spring, and shed their roseate blossoms there, Shrouding the thorns that on thy path-way rise, And scattering o'er it hues of Paradise! Thy voice of love is music to the ear, Soothing and soft, and gentle as the stream That strays 'mid summer flowers; thy glittering tear Is mutely eloquent; thy smile a beam Of light ineffable, so sweet, so dear, It wakes the heart from sorrow's darkest dream, Shedding a hallowed lustre o'er our fate, And when it beams we are not desolate!"

"There be foure good mothers have foure bad daughters: Trueth hath Hatred; Prosperity hath Pride; Security hath Perill; and Familiarity hath Contempt."

"Crush the serpent in the head, Break ill egs yer they be hatched. Kill bad chickens in the tread, Fledge[d] they hardly can be catched. In the rising stifle ill, Lest it grow against thy will."

"Our best life is to die well: for living here we enjoy nothing: things past are dead and gone: things present are alwayes ending: things future alwayes beginning: while we live we die; and we leave dying, when we leave living."

"Love is a beautiful thing a feeling and a mutual feeling between the two parties."

""I'll live tomorrow," 'tis not wise to say:'Twill be too late tomorrow—live today."

"Eve, smiling, plucked the apple, then Laughed, sighed—and tasted it again: "Strange such a pleasant, juicy thing On a forbidden tree should spring!"But had she seen with clearer eyes, Or had the serpent been less wise, She'd scarce have shown such little wit As to let Adam taste of it!"

"O, what makes woman lovely? Virtue, faith, And gentleness in suffering—an endurance Through scorn or trial. These call beauty forth, Give it the stamp celestial, and admit it To sisterhood with angels."

"Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale) Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul As e'er drank a bottle, or fathomed a bowl."