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University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore

Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes

Moore, Thomas (1779-1852)

I, II.

VOL. I., VOL. II. ODES OF ANACREON. JUVENILE POEMS. POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA.

III, IV.

VOL. III., VOL. IV. CORRUPTION AND INTOLERANCE. THE SCEPTIC. TWOPENNY POST-BAG. SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. IRISH MELODIES. NATIONAL AIRS. SACRED SONGS.

V.

VOL. V. EVENINGS IN GREECE. BALLADS, SONGS, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, ETC. ETC.

VI, VII.

VOL. VI., VOL. VII. LALLA ROOKH. POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS. THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE. RHYMES ON THE ROAD. AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

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VIII, IX.

VOL. VIII., VOL. IX THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND. MISCELLANEOUS.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.

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THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND;

I.

LETTER I. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ---, CURATE OF ---, IN IRELAND.

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II.

LETTER II. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ---.

EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

III.

LETTER III. FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ---.

IV.

LETTER IV. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ. TO THE REV. RICHARD ---.

V.

LETTER V. FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, IN ENGLAND, TO HIS WIFE JUDY, AT MULLINAFAD.

VI.

LETTER VI. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ---.

VII.

LETTER VII. FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ---.

VIII.

LETTER VIII. FROM BOB FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN.

IX.

LETTER IX. FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, TO HIS WIFE JUDY.

X.

LETTER X. FROM THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN, TO THE REV. ------.

XI.

LETTER XI. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ---.

SONGS FROM M.P.;

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

X.

VOL. X. THE EPICUREAN. ALCIPHRON.

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164

WOMAN.

Away, away—you're all the same,
A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;
And, wise too late, I burn with shame,
To think I've been your slave so long.

Slow to be won, and quick to rove,
From folly kind, from cunning loath,
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
Yet feigning all that's best in both;

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,—
More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
Than one true, manly lover blest.

Away, away—your smile's a curse—
Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind pitying Heaven, by death or worse,
If e'er I love such things again.