Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow Lord Thurlow |
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III. |
IV. |
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VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
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XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XIX. |
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XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
XXXIX. | ODE XXXIX.
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XLI. |
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XLIII. |
XLIV. |
XLV. |
XLVI. |
XLVII. |
XLVIII. |
XLIX. |
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LV. |
Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow | ||
56
ODE XXXIX.
[Lo, when I drink the purple wine]
Lo, when I drink the purple wine,
The pleasures of the heart are mine:
Then I begin with joy to sing
The Muses, and the sacred spring.
The pleasures of the heart are mine:
Then I begin with joy to sing
The Muses, and the sacred spring.
When I drink wine, I dance and play;
Care from my heart is snatch'd away;
Care, and all anxious counsels flee
To the winds, that sweep the sea.
Care from my heart is snatch'd away;
Care, and all anxious counsels flee
To the winds, that sweep the sea.
When I drink wine, the jolly God
Touches me with his purple rod;
For me does ev'ry sweet employ,
Flowery airs, and winy joy.
Touches me with his purple rod;
For me does ev'ry sweet employ,
Flowery airs, and winy joy.
When I drink wine, my careless hours
I pass in weaving crowns of flowers;
Garlands upon my head I place,
And praise of life the tranquil grace.
I pass in weaving crowns of flowers;
57
And praise of life the tranquil grace.
When I drink wine, with odorous oil
Myself I bathe, the Syrian spoil;
Withhold a girl, too, in my arms,
And sing of Love's almighty charms.
Myself I bathe, the Syrian spoil;
Withhold a girl, too, in my arms,
And sing of Love's almighty charms.
When I drink wine, and gaily sup
Of a deep, big-bellied cup,
My mind I pleasure with the truth,
And sweet speech of ingenuous youth.
Of a deep, big-bellied cup,
My mind I pleasure with the truth,
And sweet speech of ingenuous youth.
When I drink wine, this doth remain
To me, alone, of all my gain;
That what I drink I take with me,
Death being all men's destiny.
To me, alone, of all my gain;
That what I drink I take with me,
Death being all men's destiny.
Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow | ||