Beauty has wings, and too hastily flies,And love, unrewarded, soon sickens and dies.
"Song XII" (c. 1750s), St. 3; (Poetical Works of Edward Moore, London: Cawthorn, 1797). |
I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice.
Edward Moore’T is now the summer of your youth. Time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.
Edward MooreCan’t I another’s face commend,And to her virtues be a friend,But instantly your forehead lowers,As if her merit lessen’d yours?
Edward MooreThe maid who modestly concealsHer beauties, while she hides, reveals;Give but a glimpse, and fancy drawsWhate’er the Grecian Venus was.
Edward MooreBut from the hoop’s bewitching round,Her very shoe has power to wound.
Edward MooreTime still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth,And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.
Edward MooreLabour for his pains.
Edward MooreI am rich beyond the dreams of avarice.
Edward MooreBut from the hoop's bewitching round, Her very shoe has power to wound.
Edward MooreCan't I another's face commend, Or to her virtues be a friend, But instantly your forehead louers, As if her merit lessen'd yours?
Edward MooreOh, this pernicious vice of gaming!
Edward MooreI'll tell thee what it says; it calls me villain, a treacherous husband, a cruel father, a false brother; one lost to nature and her charities; or to say all in one short word, it calls me gamester.
Edward MooreAy, rail at gaming 'tis a rich topic, and affords noble declamation. Go, preach against it in the city you'll find a congregation in every tavern.
Edward MooreBeauty has wings, and too hastily flies, and love, unrewarded, soon sickens and dies.
Edward MooreTime, still as he flies, adds increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.
Edward Moore