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NO Ill on Earth we timorous Mortals fly | 3 |
With so much Dread, as abject Poverty: | 2 |
OH despicable Name! We, thee to shun, | 3 |
On every other Evil blindly run. | 0 |
In tattered Rags, and starve their Bodies too, | 0 |
And still are poor, for fear of being so. | 1 |
For fear of thee, the cheating Trader vows, | 1 |
His Wares are good, although his Conscience knows, | 1 |
He has employed his utmost Skill and Care, | 1 |
To hide their Faults, and make their Beauties glare. | 0 |
The Sailor, terrified with Thoughts of thee, | 0 |
Boldly attempts the Dangers of the Sea; | 3 |
From East to West, over Rocks and Quicksands steers; | 4 |
It's Poverty, and that alone, he fears; | 1 |
In Hopes of Plunder, bravely meets the War; | 0 |
To fly from Poverty, he runs on Death, | 1 |
Strange Terror of Mankind! By thee misled, | 4 |
Not Conscience, Quicksands, Rocks, or Death they dread! | 1 |
And yet thou art no formidable Foe, | 2 |
Except to little Souls, who think thee so: | 0 |
Who through the Glass of Prejudice survey | 1 |
Thy Face, a thousand frightful Forms display. | 0 |
THUS Men, at Night, in foolish Fears grown old, | 2 |
Who mind the Fairy Tales their Nurses told, | 0 |
Start at a Goblin, which their Fancy made, | 0 |
And, for a Spectre, often take a Shade. | 1 |
Free from the Cares unwieldy Riches bring: | 0 |
At Distance both alike deceive our View; | 0 |
Nearer approached, they take another Hue. | 2 |
The poor Man's Labour relishes his Meat; | 2 |
His Morsel's pleasant, and his Rest is sweet: | 1 |
Not so the Rich, who find their wearied Taste | 0 |
For what they have more than they can enjoy, | 1 |
Instead of satisfying, does but cloy. | 0 |
BUT let us state the Case another way: | 0 |
Were Poverty so hideous as they say, | 2 |
It's nobler cheerfully to bear our Fate, | 3 |
That Man deserves the Praise of human Kind, | 0 |
Who bears ill Fortune with a Christian Mind: | 2 |
How does his great heroic Soul aspire | 0 |
Above that sordid Wealth the rest admire! | 0 |
His faithful Eyes survey the GOD of Love | 0 |
Not all the Snares a crafty Devil can lay, | 2 |
Can intercept, or daunt him in his Way. | 0 |
Not all the scornful Insults of the Proud, | 2 |
Not Poverty, in all her Terrors dressed, | 1 |
Can shake the solid Quiet of his Breast: | 1 |
Unmoved he stands against the worst of Foes, | 0 |
And mocks the Darts, which adverse Fortune throws, | 1 |
Calm and composed, amid or Ease or Pain; | 2 |
And finds Content, which others seek in vain. | 0 |
Lashed by the foaming Surge on every Side, | 0 |
Yet can't be shaken by the furious Tide. | 3 |
Since Wealth can never make the Vicious blessed, | 0 |
Nor Poverty subdue the virtuous Breast; | 3 |
LORD, give me either; give me but CONTENT. | 1 |
Go, first, sweet hope! to thine own Heaven succeed, | 3 |
While here thy mother's heart must ever bleed, | 0 |
Must ever mourn, till that auspicious day | 0 |
This lonely hour my sorrows reach no ear, | 1 |
My angel! thou from thy resplendent throne | 2 |
O! take this moment, it is all thine own; | 1 |
Spite of religious aid my wishes rise, | 2 |
Ah! me! how weak to wish thee from the skies! | 1 |
Sometime delusion strong I see thee smile, | 1 |
And fancy wandering how remote from truth | 3 |
Surveys thee blooming in the pride of youth; | 0 |
Reason returns, and says, thou art no more! | 2 |
Ah! sad remembrance, why exert thy power, | 0 |
Why, why recall the past endearing hour, | 0 |
And opening beauty every look disclosed? | 2 |
Each happier mother, vain of her delight, | 3 |
Still, still obtrudes her darling on my sight; | 2 |
Then in the harmless smile, the feeble cry, | 0 |
I hear the voice, I see thy languid eye: | 0 |
O! still my child, if in thy perfect state, | 1 |
Thou hast a knowledge of my suffering fate, | 1 |
And bring me tidings from the realms of day; | 1 |
Tell thy sad mother when the hour draws near, | 3 |
That we shall meet, nor other parting fear; | 0 |
And Heaven, still gracious to the mourning kind, | 4 |
O! deign to send me peace, a will resigned; | 1 |
Save me from murmurs at thy high decree, | 0 |
I see a distant Fleet whose towering Masts | 0 |
Bold was the Man who felled the leavy Trees | 0 |
To seek for distant Isles, and Lands unknown; | 0 |
Content with Sea, and careless of the Shore. | 1 |
Has told the Customs of those Sons of Earth: | 1 |
Yet envious think their own too mean a Share: | 3 |
For foreign Toys they roam to every Shore, | 0 |
And bring Diseases home unknown before. | 0 |
And what they scorned before they now commend. | 0 |
But things their Value raise by being new. | 0 |
I late unseen saw from a distant Rock | 2 |
Two vast Machines engage in Clouds of Smoke; | 1 |
The Winds were high, and ruffled all the Main: | 0 |
But when the Fight with louder Noise began, | 0 |
The Gods afraid with drooping Wings retired; | 0 |
The Sea grew calm, and all the Sky was fair. | 1 |
Oft have I punished that ambitious Wight | 0 |
End of preview. Expand
in Data Studio
108k lines of 18th Century iambic pentameter, scraped via xquery from the Eighteenth Century Poetry Archive xml database.
https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Scanned using prosodic.py.
https://github.com/quadrismegistus/prosodic
"Score" roughly equates to metrical complexity or divergence from strict iambic patterning.
See https://github.com/cretic/metricalgpt for more information including metrical constraints
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