The Works of the English Poets: Gay

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Page 94 - Dame, (quoth the Raven) spare your oaths, Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes. But why on me those curses thrown ? Goody, the fault was all your own ; For had you laid this brittle ware On Dun, the old sure-footed mare, Though all the Ravens of the Hundred, With croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd, Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs, And you, good Woman, sav'd your eggs.
Page 69 - Tis thus that on the choice of friends Our good or evil name depends.
Page 58 - Tis done. The Dog the parley thus begun.
Page 154 - s born for sloth ? To some we find The ploughshare's annual toil assign'd. Some at the sounding anvil glow, Some the swift-sliding shuttle throw ; Some, studious of the wind and tide, From pole to pole our commerce guide ; Some (taught by industry) impart With hands and feet the works of art ; While some, of genius more refined, With head and tongue assist mankind ; Each, aiming at one common end, Proves to the whole a needful friend.
Page 105 - And aid him to correct the plains. But doth not he divide the care, Through all the labours of the year? How many thousand structures rise, To fence us from inclement skies!
Page 76 - I must bid the world adieu, Let me my former life review. I grant my bargains well were made, But all men over-reach in trade ; 'Tis self-defence in each profession, Sure self-defence is no transgression ! The little portion in my hands.
Page 79 - He rais'd his head with whining moan, And thus was heard the feeble tone : ' Ah ! sons ! from evil ways depart ; My crimes lie heavy on my heart. See, see the murder'd geese appear ! Why are those bleeding turkeys there ? Why all around this cackling train, Who haunt my ears for chicken slain?
Page 70 - Tis infamy to serve a hag ; Cats are thought imps, her broom a nag! And boys against our lives combine, Because, 'tis said, your Cats have nine.
Page 26 - ... winter's cold He fed his flock and penn'd the fold : His hours in cheerful labour flew, Nor envy nor ambition knew : His wisdom and his honest fame Through all the country rais'd his name.
Page 35 - While I, with weary step and slow, O'er plains and vales, and mountains go. The morning sees my chase begun, Nor ends it till the setting sun.

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