John Henry Dryden

John Henry Dryden

1,000 карма
United Kingdom (Great Britain)

от·
Gallants, a bashful poet bids me say,
He's come to lose his maidenhead to-day
Be not too fierce; for he's but green of age,
And ne'er, till now, debauched upon the stage
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от·
Dreams are but interludes which Fancy makes;
When monarch Reason sleeps, this mimic wakes:
Compounds a medley of disjointed things,
A mob of cobblers, and a court of kings:
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от·
He who, in impious times, undaunted stood,
And 'midst rebellion durst be just and good;
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more Confirmed the cause for which he fought before,
Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince,
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от·
Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit
Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
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от·
Dedicated to the Memory of the Late Countess of Abingdon
As when some great and gracious monarch dies,
Soft whispers first and mournful
Among the sad attendants; then the
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от·
I
ED a flame within, which so torments me That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me: 'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die than once remove it
Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;
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от·
Stay, stranger, stay, and drop one tear
She always weeps, who laid him here;
And will do till her race is run;
His father's fifth, her only son
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