The Spleen (Anne Kingsmill Finch Poems)
What art thou, SPLEEN, which ev'ry thing dost ape? Thou Proteus to abus'd Mankind, Who never yet thy real Cause ...
What art thou, SPLEEN, which ev'ry thing dost ape? Thou Proteus to abus'd Mankind, Who never yet thy real Cause ...
THO' to Antiquity the Praise we yield Of pleasing Arts; and Fable's earli'st Field Own to be fruitful Greece; yet ...
IN Vulgar Minds what Errors do arise! How diff'ring are the Notions, they possess, From theirs, whom better Sense ...
A Thriving Merchant, who no Loss sustained, In little time a mighty Fortune gain'd. No Pyrate seiz'd his still returning ...
A Peevish Fellow laid his Head On Pillows, stuff'd with Down; But was no sooner warm in Bed, With hopes ...
What art thou, SPLEEN, which ev'ry thing dost ape? Thou Proteus to abus'd Mankind, Who never yet thy real Cause ...
A Peevish Fellow laid his Head On Pillows, stuff'd with Down; But was no sooner warm in Bed, With hopes ...
A Thriving Merchant, who no Loss sustained, In little time a mighty Fortune gain'd. No Pyrate seiz'd his still returning ...
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