Christopher Anstey (October 31, 1724 – August 3, 1805) was an English writer and poet.
Anstey was the son of a wealthy clergyman the rector of Brinkley, Dr. Anstey in Cambridgeshire, where he was born. He was educated at Eton College and King's College, Cambridge, where he distinguished himself for his Latin verses. He became a fellow of his college (1745); but the degree of M.A. was... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Christopher Anstey Poems
Oft I've invok'd th' Aönian quire, And Phoebus oft in vain, Like thee, my friend, to tune my lyre, Like thee to raise my strain:
To Sir William Draper, K.B.
Freely I'd give ye cups of gold, Rich with the curious works of old; With coins and medals I'd present ye, And send ye rings and seals in plenty;
Britian’s Genius; Written
``Come and listen to my ditty.'' On that fam'd and ancient station Where to Thames the Medway runs, When in lawless combination
On The Recovery
With pining sickness worn, her beauty fled, Hither my Charlotte's trembling steps I led; Meek and resign'd, from this salubrious well
The Farmer’s Daughter, A Poetical Tale
Keen was the blast, and bleak the morn, When Lucy took her way, To seek the wretch, whose perjur'd vows Had led her youth astray:
To A Friend, On The Loss Of An Amiable D...
True, she was sweet, and lovely in thine eyes, Like some fair flower that blooms awhile, and dies: Yet O forbear thy heart--felt pangs to shew
Contentment; Or Hints To
Dearly beloved Countrymen and Friends, Accept the verse an half--starv'd Poet sends: Who scant of paper in these needy times,
Charity; A Poetical Paraphrase
Had it pleas'd him, from whom all wisdom flows, Him, who each good, each perfect gift bestows, With knowledge to exalt my feeble mind,
Well, Slider!--and how d'ye go on with my book? I knew it would answer the trouble I took. I hope that you like my collection of rhymes;-- Don't you think 'tis a neat little touch on the times?
An Election Ball
A thousand times hug'd with outlandish grimace, Saluted as oft' on both sides of my face, Distress'd with fine speeches, some Italiano,
An Election Ball
Once more, O! ye Muses, from Pindus descend, And bid all the Graces your footsteps attend, Who oft at elections are wont to prolong
An Election Ball,
--And so, as I told thee before, my dear wife, I'll go to the ball tho' it cost me my life-- --Must I be shut up, till, like poor neighbour Snarler, I be smok'd like a joss in mine own little parlour?
Ah me! full sorely doth it rend my heart, O! Pessimus, my veteran friend, to view Thy time--worn front, and curls of yellow hue,
A Parody On The Laureat's Ode
Wrapt in stole of sable grain, With Fogs and DULLNESS in my train, Which damp my voice, and shade my brows,
Comments about Christopher Anstey
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
A young Lady of neither Fashion, Taste, nor Spirit.
Oft I've invok'd th' Aönian quire,
And Phoebus oft in vain,
Like thee, my friend, to tune my lyre,
Like thee to raise my strain:
And when of late I sought their aid
The flow'ry bank beside,
Methought, along the silent glade,
I heard a voice that cry'd,
``Mistaken maid! why idly waste
``Your hours in fruitless toil?
``You ne'er the hallow'd brook can taste,
``Or tread poetic soil:
``For since your friend pursues the path
``Where wit and pleasure reigns,
``With her has fled each Muse ...