An Epistle Of The Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole (Richard Savage Poems)
Still let low wits, who sense nor honour prize,Sneer at all gratitude, all truth disguise;At living worth, because alive, exclaim,Insult ...
Still let low wits, who sense nor honour prize,Sneer at all gratitude, all truth disguise;At living worth, because alive, exclaim,Insult ...
. Fast, in its prison-walls of earth, Awaits the mould of baked clay. Up, comrades, up, and aid the ...
Pale the moon her light was shedding O'er the landscape far and wide;Calmly bright, all ills undreading, Emma wander'd by ...
Fast, in its prison-walls of earth, Awaits the mould of baked clay. Up, comrades, up, and aid the birth The ...
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