Song
When thy beauty appears
In its graces and airs
All bright as an angel new dropp'd from the sky,
At distance I gaze and am awed by my fears:
So strangely you dazzle my eye!
But when without art
Your kind thoughts you impart,
When your love runs in blushes through every vein;
When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart,
Then I know you're a woman again.
There 's a passion and pride
In our sex (she replied),
And thus, might I gratify both, I would do:
Still an angel appear to each lover beside,
But still be a woman to you.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Song: When Thy Beauty Appears
When thy beauty appears
In its graces and airs
All bright as an angel new dropp'd from the sky,
At distance I gaze and am awed by my fears:
So strangely you dazzle my eye!
But when without art
Your kind thoughts you impart,
When your love runs in blushes through every vein;
When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart,
Then I know you're a woman again.
There 's a passion and pride
In our sex (she replied),
And thus, might I gratify both, I would do:
Still an angel appear to each lover beside,
But still be a woman to you.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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On Mrs. Ar: F: Leaving London
From Town fair Arabella flies,
The Beaux unpowder'd grieve,
The Rivers play before her eyes,
The Breezes softly breathing rise
The Spring begins to live.
Her Lovers swore they must expire
Yet quickly find their Ease,
For as she goes, their Flames retire
Love thrives before a nearer fire
Esteem by distant Rays.
Yet soon the Fair one will return
When Summer quits the Plain
Ye Rivers pour the weeping Urn,
Ye Breezes sadly sighing mourn,
Ye Lovers burn again.
'Tis constancy enough in Love
That Nature's fairly shewn
To search for more will fruitless prove
Romances and the Turtle Dove
The Virtue boast alone.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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On The Number Three
Beauty rests not in one fix'd Place,
But seems to reign in every Face;
'Tis nothing sure, but Fancy then,
In various Forms bewitching Men;
Or is it Shape and Colour fram'd,
Proportion just, and woman nam'd?
If Fancy only rul'd in Love,
Why shou'd it then so strongly move?
Or why shou'd all that Look, agree
To own its mighty Pow'r in three?
In Three it shews a different Face,
Each shining with peculiar Grace;
Kindred a Native Likeness gives,
Which pleases, as in All it lives;
And where the Features disagree,
We praise the dear Variety.
Then Beauty surely ne'er was yet,
So much unlike it self and so complete.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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A Riddle
Upon a Bed of humble clay
In all her Garments loose
A Prostitute my Mother lay
To ev'ry Comer's use.
'Till one Gallant in heat of love
His Own Peculiar made her
And to a Region far above
And softer Beds convey'd her.
But in his Absence, to his Place
His rougher Rival came
And with a cold constrain'd Embrace
Begat me on the Dame.
I then appear'd to Publick View
A Creature wondrous bright
But shortly perishable too
Inconstant, nice and light.
On Feathers not together fast
I wildly flew about
And from my Father's country past
To find my Mother out.
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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Oft Have I Read That Innocence Retreats
Oft have I read that Innocence retreats
Where cooling streams salute ye summer Seats
Singing at ease she roves ye field of flowrs
Or safe with shepheards lys among the bowrs
But late alas I crossd a country fare
And found No Strephon nor Dorinda there
There Hodge & William Joynd to cully ned
While Ned was drinking Hodge & William dead
There Cicely Jeard by day the slips of Nell
& ere ye night was ended Cicely fell
Are these the Virtues which adorn the plain
Ye bards forsake your old Arcadian Vein
To sheep those tender Innocents resign
The place where swains & nymphs are said to shine
Swains twice as Wicked Nymphs but half as sage
Tis sheep alone retrieve ye golden age.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Ps: 113
Ye who ye Ld of host adore
O praise his name alone
O send his praises to ye skyes
Untill they reach his throne
his throne who's ever ever blest
Whose great whose holy name
still great still holy will endure
Who ever is ye same
Morning & night letts praise yt god
Who gave us morn & night.
Above all thinges yt are he is
Above ye heav'ns his might
tell of his mercy humbleness
yt tho so high he be
yet he will stoop to mind such poor
such wretched things as we
Tell of his Justice too yt from
A mean & lowly state
ye poor & innocent he does
among ev'n princes sett
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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Ps 67
Have mercy mercy Lord on us
& grant thy blessed grace
Direct us in ye way of life
By th' sunshine of thy face
So all the nations on the earth
Shall praise my god & king
& when they see thy saving health
Shall in a chorus sing.
Let all thy people praise thy name
& lift their voice on high
Let ym extoll it so with shouts
That heav'n may ring with Joy
Rejoyce o earth thy gods thy Judge
Be glad who righteous are
He'le rule ye world with equity
& govern it with fear
Let all thy people praise thy name
& lift their voice on high
Let ym extoll it so with shouts
that heav'n may ring with Joy
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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As Celia With Her Sparrow Playd
As Celia with her Sparrow playd
She took a glass unseen
Her mouth she filld
& while he billd
She spirts ye liquor in
Usd to such sweet such rosy lips
He feard no treach'ry there
But love & such
Were too too much
For one poor bird to bear
Against ye Pretty fluttring fool
The Mighty foes combine
So down he Sunk
Bewitchd or drunk
By Beauty or wth wine
But ere left ye Chirping cup
& dropp'd the little head,
The folks who guess
What Birds express
have told me thus he said,
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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Thou Gaudy Idle World Adieu
Thou Gaudy Idle world adieu,
& all thy tinsell Joys;
I lovd thee dearly once tis true,
But since a better choice I knew,
Ive made that better choice.
My wishes mount above the sky
Upon the wings of faith,
My soul shall follow when I dy,
For much I doubt if bodys fly,
What ever Asgill saith.
All things are fickle here below,
How ere above they be,
& If I had not left thee now,
Thy pleasures had left me.
Count but the changes Memory
Which your short time has known,
This is the third King which you see
Upon the English throne.
The Irish who by Williams reign
Were run so much aground,
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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