The Works of the English Poets: Savage

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Side 39 - Can its foot sharpen, like the vulture's claw? Can the fond goat, or tender fleecy dam, Howl, like the wolf, to tear the kid, or lamb? Yes, there are mothers...
Side 86 - Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall ! Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me, To me ! through Pity's eye condemn'd to see.
Side 175 - Loose-strung, run jingling into history's name. Thick as Egyptian clouds of raining flies ; As thick as worms where man corrupting lies ; As pests obscene that haunt the ruin'd pile ; As monsters floundering in the muddy Nile ; Minutes, Memoirs, Views, and Reviews appear, Where slander darkens each recorded year.
Side 191 - Thy sons, though crafty, deaf to wisdom's call; Despising all men, and despised by all. Sons, while thy cliffs a ditch-like river laves, Rude as thy rocks, and muddy as thy waves ; Of thoughts -as narrow as of words immense, As full of turbulence as void of sense : Thee, thee, what senatorial souls adorn ? Thy natives sure would prove a senate's scorn.
Side 87 - Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind ? Mother, miscalled, farewell ! Of soul severe, This sad reflection yet may force one tear : All I was wretched by...
Side 175 - Some ring or letter now reveals th' intrigue : Queens, with their minions, work unfeemly things, And boys grow dukes, when catamites to kings. Does a prince die ? What poifons they furmife ! No royal mortal fure by nature dies.
Side 88 - Her fmile more cheerful than a vernal morn, All life ! all bloom ! of Youth and Fancy born. Touch'd into joy, what hearts to her fubmit ! She looks her Sire, and fpeaks her Mother's wit. O'er the gay world the fweet infpirer reigns . Spleen flies, and Elegance her pomp fuftains.
Side 20 - twixt thy foe and thee ; Truth from an eminence surveys our scene, (A hill, where all is clear, and all serene.) Kude earth-bred storms o'er meaner valleys blow, And wandering mists roll, blackening, far below; Dark, and debas'd, like them, is Envy's aim, And clear, and eminent, like Truth, thy fame.
Side 19 - Socrates inspire her pain, And Pope, the monarch of the tuneful train ! To whom be Nature's, and Britannia's praise ! All their bright honours rush into his lays ! And all that glorious warmth his lays reveal, Which only poets, kings, and patriots feel...
Side 100 - Two Fathers join'd to rob my Claim of one ! My Mother too thought fit to have no Son ! The Senate next...

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