John Gay ( 10 of 59 )
What happiness the rural maid attends,
In cheerful labour while each day she spends!
She gratefully receives read more
What happiness the rural maid attends,
In cheerful labour while each day she spends!
She gratefully receives what Heav'n has sent,
And, rich in poverty, enjoys content.
Good housewives all the winter's rage despise,
Defended by the riding-hood's disguise;
Or, underneath the umbrella's oily read more
Good housewives all the winter's rage despise,
Defended by the riding-hood's disguise;
Or, underneath the umbrella's oily shade,
Safe through the wet on clinking pattens tread,
Let Persian dames the unbrella's ribs display,
To guard their beauties from the sunny ray;
Or sweating slaves support the shady load,
When eastern monarchs show their state abroad;
Britain in winter only knows its aid,
To guard from chilling showers the walking maid.
The brave
Love mercy, and delight to save.
The brave
Love mercy, and delight to save.
"Is there no hope?" the sick man said,
The silent doctor shook his head,
And took his read more
"Is there no hope?" the sick man said,
The silent doctor shook his head,
And took his leave with signs of sorrow,
Despairing of his fee to-morrow.
Those who in quarrels interpose, Must often wipe a bloody nose.
Those who in quarrels interpose, Must often wipe a bloody nose.
To frame the little animal, provide
All the gay hues that wait on female pride:
Let Nature read more
To frame the little animal, provide
All the gay hues that wait on female pride:
Let Nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire
The shining belles of the fly require;
The peacock's plumes thy tackle must not fail,
Nor the dear purchase of the sable's tail.
That Raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak)
Bodes me no good.
That Raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak)
Bodes me no good.
With thee conversing I forget the way.
With thee conversing I forget the way.
In other men we faults may spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye;
Each little read more
In other men we faults may spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye;
Each little speck and blemish find,
To our own stronger errors blind.
