The works of Peter Pindar, Zväzok 2

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Strana 355 - Don't cry, my lad, but dance and sing; Don't be too wise, and be an ape : — In colors let thy soul be dressed, not crape. " Roses shall smooth life's journey, and adorn ; Yet mind me — if, through want of grace, Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face, Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn.
Strana 211 - Care to our coffin adds a nail, no doubt ; And every Grin, so merry, draws one out.
Strana 16 - A taylor, woollen-draper, or a comber : Fellows that have been dead a hundred year, None but the Lord knows how or where. In Poetry's rich grass how Virtues thrive ! Some, when put in, so lean, seem scarce alive ; And yet, so speedily a bulk obtain, That even their owners know them not again.
Strana 230 - Unlucky form'd on Nature's hungry plan; Who, Lord of Millions, trembles for his store, And fears to give a farthing to the Poor ; Proclaims that penury will be his fate, And, scowling, looks on charity with hate...
Strana 147 - The mouth of History doth not mention ; And therefore I can't tell, but by invention. One day, as he was making love and praying, And pious Aves, thick as Herrings, saying...
Strana 332 - midst the humming myriads die ! Queen of the Insect World, what Leaves delight ? Of such these willing hands a Bower shall form, To guard thee from the rushing Rains of night, And hide thee from the wild wing of the Storm. Sweet Child of Stillness, 'midst the awful Calm Of pausing Nature thou art pleased to dwell ; In happy Silence to enjoy thy balm, And shed through life a Lustre round thy cell.
Strana 409 - Monarch's guide ; Incog they travell'd, shuffling side by side ; And into the Cathedral stole the Pair. The Verger met them in his blue silk gown *, And humbly bowed his neck with reverence down, Low as an Ass to lick a Lock of Hay.
Strana 339 - Academicians, when you're dead, Where, can your Impudences hope to go ? Refuse a Monarch's mighty orders ! — It smells of Treason; on Rebellion borders. — Sdeath, Sirs ! it was the Queen's fond wish as well. That Master Laurence* should come in.
Strana 57 - Rare are the buttons of a Roman's breeches, In antiquarian eyes surpassing riches ; Rare is each crack'd, black, rotten, earthen dish, That held of ancient Rome the flesh and fish.
Strana 358 - The mind of man is vastly like a hive ; His thoughts so busy ever — all alive ! But here the simile will go no further For bees are making honey, one and all ; Man's thoughts are busy in producing gall. Committing, as it were, self-murder.

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