l. 1. Withers.
afterl. 44:
But Flesh and Blood are only white and red,And brown or auburn hairs adorn the head,And the dear Creatures are but large and small—The gay, the grave, the dwarfish or the tall.
But Flesh and Blood are only white and red,And brown or auburn hairs adorn the head,And the dear Creatures are but large and small—The gay, the grave, the dwarfish or the tall.
But Flesh and Blood are only white and red,And brown or auburn hairs adorn the head,And the dear Creatures are but large and small—The gay, the grave, the dwarfish or the tall.
But Flesh and Blood are only white and red,
And brown or auburn hairs adorn the head,
And the dear Creatures are but large and small—
The gay, the grave, the dwarfish or the tall.
l. 63. Vickars.
afterl. 121:
“But, if I must more certain Verdict give,My Friend and Neighbour, I will bid thee live;For Friends one would not in such times forgo,And ’tis Revenge to sacrifice a Foe.
“But, if I must more certain Verdict give,My Friend and Neighbour, I will bid thee live;For Friends one would not in such times forgo,And ’tis Revenge to sacrifice a Foe.
“But, if I must more certain Verdict give,My Friend and Neighbour, I will bid thee live;For Friends one would not in such times forgo,And ’tis Revenge to sacrifice a Foe.
“But, if I must more certain Verdict give,
My Friend and Neighbour, I will bid thee live;
For Friends one would not in such times forgo,
And ’tis Revenge to sacrifice a Foe.
l. 172. Vickars.
afterl. 291:
“We know of Ladies who refuse to sipThe rosy Wine, nor wet the courted Lip,Yet drink at last; and Lovers, tho’ disgraced,At length may relish on the varying Taste.
“We know of Ladies who refuse to sipThe rosy Wine, nor wet the courted Lip,Yet drink at last; and Lovers, tho’ disgraced,At length may relish on the varying Taste.
“We know of Ladies who refuse to sipThe rosy Wine, nor wet the courted Lip,Yet drink at last; and Lovers, tho’ disgraced,At length may relish on the varying Taste.
“We know of Ladies who refuse to sip
The rosy Wine, nor wet the courted Lip,
Yet drink at last; and Lovers, tho’ disgraced,
At length may relish on the varying Taste.
variant ofll. 449to end:
But Fate more grievous than her fears could draw,Or his Revenge forepurposed or foresaw,Was theirs: the Carriage was with speed borne on,And had in safety thro’ the by-way gone,Avoiding face of Man; and now [it] spedTo the wild Heath that to the Ocean led.Their Minds, ev’n his who drove them with such speed,Were mov’d and troubled by the lawless Deed,And the Way plain, for so it seem’d; their HasteWas doubly urgent o’er the level Waste.None saw beside them, half o’ergrown, a CaveThat sometimes Shelter to the Shepherd gave—To them, alarm—alarming Fate to one.The Driver saw it, but he could not shun;His Cry awaked the Terrors, but too late;It just preceded the unhappy fate.Villars escaped; the youth with heavy GroanProclaimed abroad unheard the fractured bone.But poor Calista fell upon the Rock,The Cave’s foundation, nor survived the Shock.The dying Look, that Villars thought exprestHope and Contrition, Fancy might suggest;But, while he stood in Horror at the Sight,Those brilliant Eyes were set in endless night.A Fate like this, you may conceive, to paintLanguage and Colours are too weak and faint:The Lad in Agony with Grief and pain,The hurried Man too wretched to complain;But o’er the Body of the dead, her GuiltForgotten, and her blood by Vengeance spilt,The very Beasts stood trembling, and the dayIn cloudy Stillness slowly past away.A Gipsy [Horde]—what time could interveneNone knows, for Darkness then had veil’d the Scene—Led by the cry of pain, the idle CrewApproach, and pity touch’d them at the View.What they could do and what the Law decreedI need not tell—what further can we need?But from the Sense of Guilt or [Thought] of GriefNor Law nor Truth can yield the [Soul] Relief.The man is old, and feeble lives retired;Gives much, takes little—little has transpiredOf his Employments, Studies or Intent;Thankful, ’tis said, when every Day is spent.A Priest is with him; he has built his Tomb,And walks and muses by the purpos’d home—The Tomb of him who thought with too much ZealOf Joy on Earth; whose Curse it was to feelAnd love intensely—may his Spirit knowThe Joys this World could not on him bestow;And for that world may he depart from this,Where Zeal is Duty and where Love is bliss!
But Fate more grievous than her fears could draw,Or his Revenge forepurposed or foresaw,Was theirs: the Carriage was with speed borne on,And had in safety thro’ the by-way gone,Avoiding face of Man; and now [it] spedTo the wild Heath that to the Ocean led.Their Minds, ev’n his who drove them with such speed,Were mov’d and troubled by the lawless Deed,And the Way plain, for so it seem’d; their HasteWas doubly urgent o’er the level Waste.None saw beside them, half o’ergrown, a CaveThat sometimes Shelter to the Shepherd gave—To them, alarm—alarming Fate to one.The Driver saw it, but he could not shun;His Cry awaked the Terrors, but too late;It just preceded the unhappy fate.Villars escaped; the youth with heavy GroanProclaimed abroad unheard the fractured bone.But poor Calista fell upon the Rock,The Cave’s foundation, nor survived the Shock.The dying Look, that Villars thought exprestHope and Contrition, Fancy might suggest;But, while he stood in Horror at the Sight,Those brilliant Eyes were set in endless night.A Fate like this, you may conceive, to paintLanguage and Colours are too weak and faint:The Lad in Agony with Grief and pain,The hurried Man too wretched to complain;But o’er the Body of the dead, her GuiltForgotten, and her blood by Vengeance spilt,The very Beasts stood trembling, and the dayIn cloudy Stillness slowly past away.A Gipsy [Horde]—what time could interveneNone knows, for Darkness then had veil’d the Scene—Led by the cry of pain, the idle CrewApproach, and pity touch’d them at the View.What they could do and what the Law decreedI need not tell—what further can we need?But from the Sense of Guilt or [Thought] of GriefNor Law nor Truth can yield the [Soul] Relief.The man is old, and feeble lives retired;Gives much, takes little—little has transpiredOf his Employments, Studies or Intent;Thankful, ’tis said, when every Day is spent.A Priest is with him; he has built his Tomb,And walks and muses by the purpos’d home—The Tomb of him who thought with too much ZealOf Joy on Earth; whose Curse it was to feelAnd love intensely—may his Spirit knowThe Joys this World could not on him bestow;And for that world may he depart from this,Where Zeal is Duty and where Love is bliss!
But Fate more grievous than her fears could draw,Or his Revenge forepurposed or foresaw,Was theirs: the Carriage was with speed borne on,And had in safety thro’ the by-way gone,Avoiding face of Man; and now [it] spedTo the wild Heath that to the Ocean led.Their Minds, ev’n his who drove them with such speed,Were mov’d and troubled by the lawless Deed,And the Way plain, for so it seem’d; their HasteWas doubly urgent o’er the level Waste.None saw beside them, half o’ergrown, a CaveThat sometimes Shelter to the Shepherd gave—To them, alarm—alarming Fate to one.The Driver saw it, but he could not shun;His Cry awaked the Terrors, but too late;It just preceded the unhappy fate.Villars escaped; the youth with heavy GroanProclaimed abroad unheard the fractured bone.But poor Calista fell upon the Rock,The Cave’s foundation, nor survived the Shock.The dying Look, that Villars thought exprestHope and Contrition, Fancy might suggest;But, while he stood in Horror at the Sight,Those brilliant Eyes were set in endless night.A Fate like this, you may conceive, to paintLanguage and Colours are too weak and faint:The Lad in Agony with Grief and pain,The hurried Man too wretched to complain;But o’er the Body of the dead, her GuiltForgotten, and her blood by Vengeance spilt,The very Beasts stood trembling, and the dayIn cloudy Stillness slowly past away.A Gipsy [Horde]—what time could interveneNone knows, for Darkness then had veil’d the Scene—Led by the cry of pain, the idle CrewApproach, and pity touch’d them at the View.What they could do and what the Law decreedI need not tell—what further can we need?But from the Sense of Guilt or [Thought] of GriefNor Law nor Truth can yield the [Soul] Relief.The man is old, and feeble lives retired;Gives much, takes little—little has transpiredOf his Employments, Studies or Intent;Thankful, ’tis said, when every Day is spent.A Priest is with him; he has built his Tomb,And walks and muses by the purpos’d home—The Tomb of him who thought with too much ZealOf Joy on Earth; whose Curse it was to feelAnd love intensely—may his Spirit knowThe Joys this World could not on him bestow;And for that world may he depart from this,Where Zeal is Duty and where Love is bliss!
But Fate more grievous than her fears could draw,
Or his Revenge forepurposed or foresaw,
Was theirs: the Carriage was with speed borne on,
And had in safety thro’ the by-way gone,
Avoiding face of Man; and now [it] sped
To the wild Heath that to the Ocean led.
Their Minds, ev’n his who drove them with such speed,
Were mov’d and troubled by the lawless Deed,
And the Way plain, for so it seem’d; their Haste
Was doubly urgent o’er the level Waste.
None saw beside them, half o’ergrown, a Cave
That sometimes Shelter to the Shepherd gave—
To them, alarm—alarming Fate to one.
The Driver saw it, but he could not shun;
His Cry awaked the Terrors, but too late;
It just preceded the unhappy fate.
Villars escaped; the youth with heavy Groan
Proclaimed abroad unheard the fractured bone.
But poor Calista fell upon the Rock,
The Cave’s foundation, nor survived the Shock.
The dying Look, that Villars thought exprest
Hope and Contrition, Fancy might suggest;
But, while he stood in Horror at the Sight,
Those brilliant Eyes were set in endless night.
A Fate like this, you may conceive, to paint
Language and Colours are too weak and faint:
The Lad in Agony with Grief and pain,
The hurried Man too wretched to complain;
But o’er the Body of the dead, her Guilt
Forgotten, and her blood by Vengeance spilt,
The very Beasts stood trembling, and the day
In cloudy Stillness slowly past away.
A Gipsy [Horde]—what time could intervene
None knows, for Darkness then had veil’d the Scene—
Led by the cry of pain, the idle Crew
Approach, and pity touch’d them at the View.
What they could do and what the Law decreed
I need not tell—what further can we need?
But from the Sense of Guilt or [Thought] of Grief
Nor Law nor Truth can yield the [Soul] Relief.
The man is old, and feeble lives retired;
Gives much, takes little—little has transpired
Of his Employments, Studies or Intent;
Thankful, ’tis said, when every Day is spent.
A Priest is with him; he has built his Tomb,
And walks and muses by the purpos’d home—
The Tomb of him who thought with too much Zeal
Of Joy on Earth; whose Curse it was to feel
And love intensely—may his Spirit know
The Joys this World could not on him bestow;
And for that world may he depart from this,
Where Zeal is Duty and where Love is bliss!