George Crabbe

Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?
Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,
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Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?
Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,
By winding myrtle round your ruin'd shed?

Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies,
Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies;
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Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies,
Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies;
The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare,
And shed their substance on the floating air.

Jane borrow'd maxims from a doubting school,
And took for truth the test of ridicule;
Lucy saw read more

Jane borrow'd maxims from a doubting school,
And took for truth the test of ridicule;
Lucy saw no such virtue in a jest,
Truth was with her of ridicule the test.

Feed the musician, and he's out of tune

Feed the musician, and he's out of tune

Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead:
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Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead:
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own.