En.Citatepedia^®.ro

To Mrs. Putland.

Uncommon Charms, I plainly see,
Compleat the Fair for Tyranny.
Then, lest your Form should make you vain
Of Conquest, and of giving Pain,
Those, whom your Beauties have enslav'd,
By me shall now be undeceiv'd.

Long was I Fool enough to view
Thy rapt'rous Shape, and thought it new;
Till lately reading Waller o'er,
I found 'twas Amoret's before.

poem by Mary Barber
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A Song. Fair, Sweet And Young, Receive A Prize

1.
Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserved for your victorious eyes:
From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
O pity, and distinguish me!
As I from thousand beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.

2.
Your face for conquest was design'd,
Your every motion charms my mind;
Angels, when you your silence break,
Forget their hymns, to hear you speak;
But when at once they hear and view,
Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.

3.
No graces can your form improve,
But all are lost, unless you love;
While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain:
In pity then prevent my fate,
For after dying all reprieve's too late.

poem by John Dryden
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Songs Set To Music: 22. Set By Mr. De Fesch

In vain, alas! poor Strephon tries
To ease his tortured breast,
Since Amoret the cure denies,
And makes his pain a jest.

Ah! fair one, why to me so coy,
And why to him so true?
Who with more coldness slights the joy
Than I with love pursue.

Die, then, unhappy lover, die;
For since she gives thee death,
The world has nothing that can buy
A minute more of breath.

Yet though I could your scorn outlive,
'Twere folly, since to me
Not love itself a joy can give,
But, Amoret, in thee.

poem by Matthew Prior
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Ode VIII: If Rightly Tuneful Bards Decide

I.
If rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be fix'd in love's decrees,
That beauty ought not to be tried
But by its native power to please,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell,
What fair can Amoret excell?

II.
Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yet (she so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen)
We nought but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

III.
But neither music, nor the powers
Of youth and mirth and frolick cheer,
Add half that sunshine to the hours,
Or make life's prospect half so clear,
As memory brings it to the eye
From scenes where Amoret was by.

IV.
Yet not a satirist could there
Or fault or indiscretion find;
Nor any prouder sage declare
One virtue, pictur'd in his mind,
Whose form with lovelier colours glows
Than Amoret's demeanor shows.

V.
This sure is beauty's happiest part:
This gives the most unbounded sway:
This shall inchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.

poem by Mark Akenside
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Songs Set To Music: 3. Set By Mr. De Fesch

Strephonetta, why d'ye fly me,
With such rigour in your eyes:
Oh! 'tis cruel to deny me,
Since your charms I so much prize.

But I plainly see the reason
Why in vain I you pursued,
Her to gain 'twas out of season,
Who before the chaplain woo'd.

poem by Matthew Prior
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The Story of Phœbus and Daphne, Applied

Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain;
Like Phœbus sung the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy;
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phœbus' self might use;
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads;
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,
Or form some image of his cruel fair:
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain;
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arm with bays.

poem by Edmund Waller
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To Mrs. Frances--Arabella Kelly.

To Day, as at my Glass I stood,
To set my Head--cloaths, and my Hood;
I saw my grizzled Locks with Dread,
And call'd to mind the Gorgon's Head.

Thought I, whate'er the Poets say,
Medusa's Hair was only gray:
Tho' Ovid, who the Story told,
Was too well--bred to call her old;
But, what amounted to the same,
He made her an immortal Dame.

Yet now, whene'er a Matron sage
Hath felt the rugged Hand of Age,
You hear out witty Coxcombs cry,
Rot that old Witch--she'll never die.
Tho', had they but a little Reading,
Ovid would teach them better Breeding.

I fancy now, I hear you say,
Grant Heav'n, my Locks may ne'er be gray!
Why am I told this frightful Story?
To Beauty a Memento mori.

And, as along the Room you pass,
Casting your Eye upon the Glass,
Surely, say you, this lovely Face
Will never suffer such Disgrace:
The Bloom, that on my Cheek appears,
Will never be impair'd by Years.
Her Envy, now, I plainly see,
Makes her inscribe those Lines to me.
These Beldams, who were born before me,
Are griev'd to see the Men adore me:
Their snaky Locks freeze up the Blood;
My Tresses fire the purple Flood.

Unnumber'd Slaves around me wait,
And from my Eyes expect their Fate:
I own, of Conquest I am vain,
Tho' I despise the Slaves I gain.
Heav'n gave me Charms, and destin'd me
For universal Tyranny.

poem by Mary Barber
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To Lady Firebrace

At length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,
So long renown'd in B-n's deathless strain?
Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace, might inspire
Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre:
For such thy beauteous mind and lovely face,
Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph, a
Muse and Grace
.

poem by Samuel Johnson
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On Leaving Bath.

The Britons, in their Nature shy,
View Strangers with a distant Eye:
We think them partial and severe;
And judge their Manners by their Air:
Are undeceiv'd by Time alone;
Their Value rises, as they're known.

Here many a worthy Mind I found,
With Sense and Taste, by Virtue crown'd,
At once so truly good and great,
They knew to bear a prosp'rous State.

Few take from noble Blood Pretence
To act or look with Insolence:
Veins, with the richest Purple dy'd,
But seldom swell the Heart with Pride,
So, tho' the River--Gods, from high,
With plenteous Urns the Streams supply,
Which still enlarge, as they descend,
Roll down, and in the Ocean end,
Thro' Ages pour'd; yet, to our Eyes,
Old Ocean is too great to rise.

The gen'rous Treatment I have met,
Hath run me deep in Albion's Debt:
And, could my artless Lines impart
The grateful Dictates of my Heart,
Latest Posterity should know
The Sense I have of what I owe.

Dear Bath, a long, a last Adieu!
Since I no more shall visit you;
Nor fix'd by Choice, but barr'd by Fate,
From a Felicity so great.
O may thy Waters ever be
Healthful to others, as to me!
Had Ovid, with prophetic View,
Beheld the Wonders wrought by you,
Medea's Arts he might have spar'd,
And Life by thee alone repair'd.

poem by Mary Barber
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Amoret

If rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be fix'd in Love's decrees,
That Beauty ought not to be tried
But by its native power to please,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell—
What fair can Amoret excel?

Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yet—she so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen—
We naught but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

But neither music, nor the powers
Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer,
Add half the sunshine to the hours,
Or make life's prospect half so clear,
As memory brings it to the eye
From scenes where Amoret was by.

This, sure, is Beauty's happiest part;
This gives the most unbounded sway;
This shall enchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of Time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.

poem by Mark Akenside
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Nancy of the Vale

The western sky was purpled o'er
With every pleasing ray;
And flocks reviving felt no more
The sultry heats of day;

When from an hazel's artless bower
Soft warbled Strephon's tongue;
He blest the scene, he blest the hour,
While Nancy's praise he sung.

'Let fops with fickle falsehood range
The paths of wanton love,
While weeping maids lament their change,
And sadden every grove:

'But endless blessings crown the day
I saw fair Esham's dale!
And every blessing find its way
To Nancy of the Vale.

''Twas from Avona's banks the maid
Diffused her lovely beams,
And every shining glance display'd
The Naiad of the streams.

'Soft as the wild-duck's tender young,
That float on Avon's tide;
Bright as the water-lily, sprung,
And glittering near its side

'Fresh as the bordering flowers her bloom,
Her eye all mild to view;
The little halcyon's azure plume
Was never half so blue.

'Her shape was like the reed so sleek,
So taper, strait, and fair;
Her dimpled smile, her blushing cheek,
How charming sweet they were!

'Far in the winding vale retired,
This peerless bud I found,
And shadowing rocks and woods conspired
To fence her beauties round.

'That Nature in so lone a dell
Should form a nymph so sweet!
Or Fortune to her secret cell
Conduct my wandering feet!

'Gay lordlings sought her for their bride,
But she would ne'er incline:
'Prove to your equals true,' she cried,
'As I will prove to mine.

''Tis Strephon, on the mountain's brow,
Has won my right good will;
To him I gave my plighted vow,
With him I'll climb the hill.'

'Struck with her charms and gentle truth,
I clasp'd the constant fair;
To her alone I gave my youth,
And vow my future care.

'And when this vow shall faithless prove,
Or I those charms forego;
The stream that saw our tender love,
That stream shall cease to flow.'

poem by William Shenstone
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A Beavy Of The Fair & Gay

A Beavy of the fair & Gay,
Such as are daily Smoakt in tea,
& toasted over wine,
Vext to be made so long the Jeast
Of tongues & pens, to go in quest
Of reputation Joyn.
To K---d's house they first repair,
But scarce find any footsteps there,
to keep them off cold scent;
Long had she fled his slavery,
Her gallants stabbd him first, & she
Woud bury him in paint.
To O---y's they next advance,
But he was vanishd on a glance
to Make some conquest shott;
One who so many loves as she,
& one who loves fooles company,
Must love for you know what.
Of T---n newes in vain they sought,
Scarce M---ws covets to be thought
So ignorant in dressing;
For scandall had like Cr---fts appeard,
He urgd his suit, the God retird,
& left the Nymph unlacing.
No longer on your search remain,
For since your labour must be vain,
What need you make it long:
Believe me fairs, that every one
preserves him for her self alone,
Upon her proper tongue.

poem by Thomas Parnell
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To a Young Lady, on Her Birthday

This tributary verse receive, my fair,
Warm with an ardent lover's fondest prayer,
May this returning day for ever find
Thy form more lovely, more adorn'd thy mind;
All pains, all cares, may favouring heaven remove,
All but the sweet solicitudes of love!
May powerful nature join with grateful art,
To point each glance, and force it to the heart!
O then! when conquer'd crowds confess thy sway,
When even proud wealth and prouder wit obey,
My fair, be mindful of the mighty trust,
Alas! 'tis hard for beauty to be just.
Those sovereign charms with strictest care employ;
Nor give the generous pain, the worthless joy;
With his own form acquaint the forward fool,
Shown in the mimic glass of ridicule:
Teach mimic censure her own faults to find,
No more let coquettes to themselves be blind,
So shall Belinda's charms improve mankind.

poem by Samuel Johnson
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And Thats What Hurts

Never let nobody know me
Never let nobody dare
Never let somebody hold me
Long enough for me to care...
Till I found you
Till I found you.
Never let my guard down easy
Never let myself let go
I never knew the reason why
I never let my feelings show
Till I felt the pain
Of loving you
And thats what hurts
When we say goodbye
And thats what hurts
On those sleepless nights
Theres nothing I can do
Cos Im lost inside of you
And thats what hurts.
I never let nobody touch me
Never let nobody try
I never let somebody move me
Deep enough to make me cry
Till I found you
Till I found you
I was strong and independent
I never needed anyone
I thought I had it all together
Until you came and proved me wrong
Now Im stronger with you
In my life
And thats what hurts
When we say goodbye
And thats what hurts
On those sleepless nights
Theres nothing I can do
Cos Im lost inside of you
And thats what hurts
Yeah and thats the catch
But the hearts not good at holding back
Its a blessing and a curse
And I dont know whats worse
And thats what hurts.
Sometimes I wanna run
Sometimes I feel just like a fool
Sometimes Im even sorry baby
That I felt in love with you.
Oooh thats when it hurts
It hurts so bad
Ooh cant sleep at night
Nothing I can do
Cause Im lost inside of you
Oohhh
It hurts oh it hurts
Cause Im lost inside of you
I cant help myself
I cant help myself
Hurts without you baby
Youre not here, youre not here

song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To the Right Honourable The Countess Dowager Of Devonshire, On A Piece Of Wiessen's

Wiessen and nature held a long contest
If she created or he painted best;
With pleasing thought the wondrous combat grew,
She still form'd fairer, he still liker drew.
In these seven brethren they contended last;
With art increased their utmost skill they tried,
And both well pleased they had themselves surpass'd,
The goddess triumph'd, and the painter died.
That both their skill to this vast height did raise,
Be ours the wonder, and be yours the praise:
For here, as in some glass, is well descried
Only yourself thus often multiply'd.
When heaven had you and gracious Anna made,
What more exalted beauty could it add?
Having no nobler images in store,
It but kept up to these, nor could do more
Than copy well what it had framed before.
If in dear Burghley's generous face we see
Obliging truth and handsome honesty,
With all that world of charms which soon will move
Reverence in men, and in the fair ones love;
His every grace his fair descent assures,
He has his mother's beauty, she has yours.
If every Cecil's face had every charm
That thought can fancy or that heaven can form,
Their beauties all become your beauty's due;
They are all fair, because they're all like you.
If every Ca'ndish great and charming look,
From you that air, from you the charms, they took,
In their each limb your image is exprest,
But on their brow firm courage stands confest;
There their great father, by a strong increase,
Adds strength to beauty, and completes the piece.
Thus still your beauty in your sons we view,
Wiessen seven times one great perfection drew;
Whoever sat, the picture still is you.
So when the parent sun with genial beams
Has animated many goodly gems,
He sees himself improved, while every stone,
With a resembling light, reflects a sun.
So when great Rhea many births had given,
Such as might govern earth and people heaven,
Her glory grew diffused; and, fuller known,
She saw the Deity in every son;
And to what god soe'er men altars raised,
Honouring the offspring, they the mother praised.
In short-lived charms let others place their joys,
Which sickness blasts, and certain age destroys;
Your stronger beauty time can ne'er deface,
'Tis still renew'd and stamp'd in all your race.
Ah! Wiessen, had thy art been so refined
As with their beauty to have drawn their mind,
Through circling years thy labours would survive,
And living rules to fairest virtue give,
To men unborn and ages yet to live:
T'would still be wonderful, and still be new,
Against what time, or spite, or fate could do,
Till thine, confused with nature's pieces lie,
And Ca'ndish's name and Cecil's honour die.

poem by Matthew Prior
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The Origin of the Harp

Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,
Till heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair -- still her cheeks smiled the same --
While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

poem by Thomas Moore
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Stella In Mourning

When lately Stella's form display'd
The beauties of the gay brocade,
The nymphs, who found their power decline,
Proclaim'd her not so fair as fine.
'Fate! snatch away the bright disguise,
And let the goddess trust her eyes.'
Thus blindly pray'd the fretful pair,
And Fate malicious heard the prayer;
But brighten'd by the sable dress,
As virtue rises in distress,
Since Stella still extends her reign,
Ah! how shall envy soothe her pain?
'Th' adoring youth and envious fair,
Henceforth shall form one common prayer
And love and hate alike implore
The skies - 'That Stella mourn no more.'

poem by Samuel Johnson
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The Scrutiny

Why should you swear I am forsworn,
Since thine I vowed to be?
Lady, it is already morn,
And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

Have I not loved thee much and long,
A tedious twelve hours' space?
I must all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Could I still dote upon thy face.

Not but all joy in thy brown hair
By others may be found;—
But I must search the black and fair,
Like skilful mineralists that sound
For treasure in unploughed-up ground.

Then if, when I have loved my round,
Thou prov'st the pleasant she,
With spoils of meaner beauties crowned
I laden will return to thee,
Ev'n sated with variety.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Never

minds unfolding,
hearts racing,
the clock ticking,
as I just sit and wait.

waiting till time ends,
till I'm free,
free from these chains,
and free from the pain.

somewhere it's safe,
someday I'll be too,
but until I find it,
I'm stuck here without you.

you were my freedom,
my sanctum and hope,
but now I don't know,
where have you gone?

you looking at me,
'twas the spark,
but that was long ago,
never to happen again.

you said you loved me,
I was the fool,
I believed you,
huge mistake.

the pain you cause me,
was too much to bare,
but now I know,
you never truly cared.

poem by Katherine Bryce
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Of English Verse

Poets may boast, as safely vain,
Their works shall with the world remain;
Both, bound together, live or die,
The verses and the prophecy.

But who can hope his lines should long
Last in a daily changing tongue?
While they are new, envy prevails;
And as that dies, our language fails.

When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art;
Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets that lasting marble seek
Must carve in Latin or in Greek;
We write in sand, our language grows,
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

Chaucer his sense can only boast,
The glory of his numbers lost!
Years have defaced his matchless strain,
And yet he did not sing in vain.

The beauties which adorned that age,
The shining subjects of his rage,
Hoping they should immortal prove,
Rewarded with success his love.

This was the generous poet's scope,
And all an English pen can hope,
To make the fair approve his flame,
That can so far extend their fame.

Verse, thus designed, has no ill fate
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading beauty; if it prove
But as long-lived as present love.

poem by Edmund Waller
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He wonders whether to praise or to blame her

I have peace to weigh your worth, now all is over,
But if to praise or blame you, cannot say.
For, who decries the loved, decries the lover;
Yet what man lauds the thing he's thrown away?

Be you, in truth, this dull, slight, cloudy naught,
The more fool I, so great a fool to adore;
But if you're that high goddess once I thought,
The more your godhead is, I lose the more.

Dear fool, pity the fool who thought you clever!
Dear wisdom, do not mock the fool that missed you!
Most fair, - the blind has lost your face for ever!
Most foul, - how could I see you while I kissed you?

So . . . the poor love of fools and blind I've proved you,
For, foul or lovely, 'twas a fool that loved you.

poem by Rupert Brooke (1913)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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