Where others love, and praise my Verses; still
Thy long-black-Thumb-nail marks 'em out for ill:
A fellon take it, or some Whit-flaw come
For to unslate, or to untile that thumb!
But cry thee Mercy: Exercise thy nailes
To scratch or claw, so that thy tongue not railes:
Some numbers prurient are, and some of these
Are wanton with their itch; scratch, and 'twill please.

Truth—Goodness—Beauty—those celestial thrins,
Continually are born; e'en now the Universe,
With thousand throats—and eke with greener smiles,
Its joy confesses at their recent birth.

The heavens are somber; the earth is yellow;
The whole universe at the creation was one wide waste …
Now this our human body is endowed
With four great powers and five cardinal virtues:
Preserve with reverence what your parents nourished—
How dare you destroy or injure it?
Let females guard their chastity and purity,
And let men imitate the talented and virtuous.
When you know your own errors then reform;
And when you have made acquisitions do not lose them.
Forbear to complain of the defects of other people,
And cease to brag of your own superiority

When first the Magick of thine eye
Usurpt upon my liberty,
Triumphing in my hearts spoyle, thou
Didst lock up thine in such a vow:
When I prove false, may the bright day
Be govern'd by the Moones pale ray,
(As I too well remember) this
Thou saidst, and seal'dst it with a kisse.

Oh heavens! and could so soon that tie
Relent in sad apostacy?
Could all thy Oaths and mortgag'd trust,
Vanish like Letters form'd in dust,
Which the next wind scatters? take heed,
Take heed Revolter; know this deed
Hath wrong'd the world, which will fare worse

While pleasure reigns unrivalled on this shore,
The streets of Boston stream with British gore;
While like fall'n Romans for new joys we sigh,
Our friends drop breathless, or for mercy cry.
Perhaps the soldier, lost to pity's charms,
Now stabs the infant in the mother's arms;
Perhaps the husband sees his better part
Welt'ring in gore and bleeding from the heart;
Perhaps the lover, plunged in bitter woe,
Is torn from her whom most he loves below,
And sees the life he values as his own
Yielded in pangs, or hears the dying groan;

A fragrant breeze blows across the water,
stirring up the cattails grown tall.
My mat is wavy as the Hsiang River;
smoke rises like mist from a Po-shan censer.
I've been drinking less since summer's start,
since spring's end, haven't sought pleasure.
Awaking from a nap, I see the pond is quiet.
I call a child and say, “Let those baby ducks go.”

Your cheeks are garden-spots
Of Touch-me-nots;
Your hair the gathered beams
Of sunny dreams;
And that your soul looks thro'
Are bits of fallen blue.

No wall hath circled yet,
Nor dews have wet,
A red rose like your lips.
To steal sweet kisses from your brow,
A lightsome zephyr I would be,—
A brook to murmur you a vow
Of love and constancy.

Your cheeks are garden-spots
Of Touch-me-nots;
Your hair the gathered beams
Of sunny dreams;
And that your soul looks thro'
Are bits of fallen blue.

No wall hath circled yet,

Her Cheek's a lily newly blown,
Her brow like marble white,
And he who has not Demo known
Has never known delight.
O pale-faced maid, dost thou still yearn
For Zion far away?
E'en in that temple love's fires burn
On great Jehovah's day.

Oh , blest are they to whom 'tis given
To shine as radiant stars above,—
The sons of light, the heirs of heaven,
The tenants of a world of love.

No grief shall draw the swelling tear
Of anguish from the pilgrim's eye;
No wearying toil, no anxious fear,—
The conqueror never more shall die.

No fierce disease, no chilling blast,
Shall e'er that better land invade;
Faith's vision there shall change to sight,
And glory o'er the scene be shed.

And there the peace that Jesus gives,
In every ransomed soul shall reign;

Lord , I am humbled by the great,
For all the great have deadly foes;
There is a worm would like to eat
The heart of every perfect rose;

There is a crow would like to pick
The bones of every glory bare;
My enemies are gentle souls
And for my death they do not care.

My enemies still suffer me
And I am scatheless to this hour.
Men hunt upon the hills of time
A nobler quarry to devour.