It is not here I best enjoy
The pleasure, that can never cloy,
Of idly roaming London town,
Where such familiar names look down
...
To you, whose temperate pulses flow
With measured beat, serene and slow,
The even tenor of whose way
...
The promise of these fragrant flowers,
The fruit that 'neath these blossoms lies
Once hung, they say, in Eden's bowers,
...
Sullen and dull, in the September day,
On the bank of the river,
...
'Twas as she slept that Cupid came,
His bow and arrows taking,
That she might feel his power in dreams
Who scorned his weapons waking.
...
A dove lay caught in a fowler’s snare;
By cruel cords her wings were pressed,
Ruffled was all her plumage fair,
...
Sweet sixteen is shy and cold,
Calls me 'sir,' and thinks me old;
Hears in am embarrassed way
...
You say, when I kissed you, you are sure I must quite
Have forgotten myself. So I did; you are right.
...
Her lips were so near
That--what else could I do?
You'll be angry, I fear.
...
At Cato's Head in Russell Street
These leaves she sat a-stitching;
I fancy she was trim and neat,
...