The Little Book of Society Verse

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Houghton Mifflin, 1922 - 355 psl.
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169 psl. - Sigh, no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever ; One foot in sea, and one on shore ; To one thing constant never : Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny ; Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.
269 psl. - And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, " They are gone." The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.
270 psl. - But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here ; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer...
87 psl. - HAD we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find : I by the tide Of Humber would complain.
14 psl. - For while she makes her silk-worms beds With all the tender things I swear, Whilst all the house my passion reads In papers round her baby's hair, She may receive and own my flame; For though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.
88 psl. - But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
209 psl. - Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?
256 psl. - Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, .as now I'm sitting, In this same place — but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me — There's no one now to share my cup.
89 psl. - Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife, Thorough the iron gates of life ; Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
268 psl. - Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone.

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