Epigram
The greatest Gifts that Nature does bestow,
Can't unassisted to Perfection grow:
A scanty Fortune clips the Wings of Fame,
And checks the Progress of a rising Name;
Each dastard Vertue drags a Captive's Chain,
And moves but slowly, for it moves with Pain.
Domestick Cares sit hard upon the Mind,
And cramp those Thoughts which shou'd be unconfin'd;
The Cries of Poverty alarm the Soul,
Abate its Vigour, its Designs controul:
The Stings of Want inflict the Wounds of Death,
And Motion always ceases with the Breath.
The Love of Friends is found a languid Fire,
That glares but faintly, and will soon expire;
Weak is its Force, nor can its Warmth be great,
A feeble Light begets a feeble Heat.
Wealth is the Fuel that must feed the Flame,
It dyes in Rags, and scarce deserves a Name.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Love In Disguise
To stifle Passion is no easy Thing,
A Heart in Love is always on the Wing;
The bold Betrayer flutters still,
And fans the Breath prepar'd to tell:
It melts the Tongue, and tunes the Throat,
And moves the Lips to form the Note;
And when the Speech is lost,
It then sends out its Ghost,
A little Sigh,
To say we dye.
'Tis strange the Air that Cools, a Flame shou'd prove,
But wonder not, it is the Air of Love.
Yet Chloris I can make my Love look well,
And cover bleeding Wounds I can't conceal,
My Words such artful Accents break,
You think I rather act than speak:
My Sighs enliven'd thro' a Smile,
Your unsuspecting Thoughts beguile;
My Eyes are vary'd so,
You can't their Wishes know:
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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On Ye Plott Against King William
Rome when she could King Pyrrhus Life have bought
She scornd a triumph So ignobly gott,
The treason & ye traitor both disdaind,
& ever Justly conquerd ever Justly reignd.
But (Like an Affrick) England serpents bears
Which would their parent country's bowels teare,
Our better Genius tumble Headlong down,
& sett our evil one upon ye throne.
The Titans wickedness nere reacht so high,
They fought but for ye empire of ye sky,
When Jove unjustly held the soveraignity.
That Godlike soul which doth inform our state
Gerion-like, ye'de conquer by deceit.
Ye in one stroke would make three kingdomes bleed,
& Leave our Iles as nile without a head.
Cease fooles with Hellish plotts to wrack your brain,
Ye Cannot wound a God, ye strive in vain;
Ixions fate again is acted here,
He for a Deity imbrac't, ye wounded, air.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Chloris Appearing In A Looking Glass
Oft have I seen a Piece of Art,
Of Light and Shade, the Mixture fine,
Speak all the Passions of the Heart,
And shew true Life in every Line.
But what is this before my Eyes,
With every Feature, every Grace,
That strikes with Love and with Surprize,
And gives me all the Vital Face.
It is not Chloris, for behold
The shifting Phantom comes and goes;
And when 'tis here 'tis pale and cold,
Nor any Female Softness knows.
But 'tis her Image, for I feel
The very Pains that Chloris gives;
Her Charms are there, I know 'em well,
I see what in my Bosom lives.
Oh cou'd I but the Picture save!
'Tis drawn by her own matchless Skill;
Nature the lively Colours gave,
And she need only Look to Kill.
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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On Ye Queens Death
The Persians us'd at setting of ye sunn
To howl, as if he nere again should runn
They onely acted it but we indeed
Must doot for all that lovely was is fled
all that was great good Just & vertuous Dead.
The poets of ye graces do relate
that they did upon none but Venus wait
'Tis false or this was she for in each eye
of hers ten thousand graces you might spy
So many her vertues were Death heard ym told
Mistook ye for her dayes & thought her old
yet she is gone all that was lovely fled,
all that was great good Just & vertuous dead
When Romulus was taken to ye gods
& Ceesar mounted to ye blest abodes
in floods & earth-quakes nature Largely grievd
for these her Heroes heaven had receivd
She wept indeed then now she cannot weep
the stillness of ye waves but shows ye deep
the greatness of ye Loss putts all her faculties asleep.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Metr: Boetius 1s 1 Quisquis Comp
The Man whose mind & actions still Sedate
Can bravely triumph ore ye thoughts of fate
He who unaltered fortunes Changes brookes
Without elated or dejected lookes
With a fixd carriage & undaunted soul
Shall see ye oceans boiling surges roll
Vesuvius flames in smoaky pillars rise
& bolts of thunder dart from opening skys
Why dread we wretched mankind tell me why
When the vain threats of tyrants idely fly
Weigh all things right as in themselves they are
Unlearn your minds to move by hope & fear
With in yr breast lett resolution reign
& all their baffled forces act in vain
But he who servily can wish or grieve
For that which is not in his powr to give
Casts off the firmness wch shoud make him great
the strongest shield we can oppose to fate
letts inclinations grow & thus he weaves
Those very bonds which keep us passions slaves.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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A Song
Thyrsis, a young and am'rous Swain,
Saw two, the Beauties of the Plain;
Who both his Heart subdue:
Gay Cælia's Eyes were dazzling fair,
Sabina's easy Shape and Air
With softer Magick drew.
He haunts the Stream, he haunts the Grove,
Lives in a fond Romance of Love,
And seems for each to dye;
'Till each a little spiteful grown,
Sabina Cælia's Shape ran down,
And she Sabina's Eye.
Their Envy made the Shepherd find
Those Eyes, which Love cou'd only blind;
So set the Lover free:
No more he haunts the Grove or Stream,
Or with a True-love Knot and Name
Engraves a wounded Tree.
Ah Cælia! (sly Sabina cry'd)
Tho' neither love, we're both deny'd;
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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Song: My Days Have Been So Wondrous Free
My days have been so wondrous free,
The little birds that fly
With careless ease from tree to tree,
Were but as bless'd as I.
Ask gliding waters, if a tear
Of mine increas'd their stream?
Or ask the flying gales, if e'er
I lent one sigh to them?
But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught;
The tender chains of sweet desire
Are fix'd upon my thought.
Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines!
Ye swains that haunt the grove!
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds!
Ye close retreats of love!
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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My Days Have Been So Wondrous Free
My days have been so wondrous free,
The little birds that fly
With careless ease from tree to tree,
Were but as bless'd as I.
Ask gliding waters, if a tear
Of mine increas'd their stream?
Or ask the flying gales, if e'er
I lent one sigh to them?
But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught;
The tender chains of sweet desire
Are fix'd upon my thought.
Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines!
Ye swains that haunt the grove!
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds!
Ye close retreats of love!
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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A Parody Of Donec Gratus Eram In A dialogue Between M--- & His Wife
He. When first my Biddy love profest
My rapture ran so high
Not Gentle S---s fondly prest
To beautious G---s panting breast
Was half so blest as I
She. When first my bard you taught my name
To sound in Song divine
Not S---s exalted fame
Tho S---s a P--- aim
I wishd instead of mine
He. But now the Muse thy late delight
You See thy rival prove
For night & day & day & night
To write & read & read & write
Is all ye life I love
She Forlorn yet senceless of ye pain
I to the Mirrour fly
Survey my self am Justly vain
And but I know my self again
For that dear face coud dy
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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