William Shenstone

My banks they are furnish’d with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep.

So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return.

For seldom shall she hear a tale So sad, so tender, yet so true.

Perish the lover, whose imperfect flame Forgets one feature of the nymph he lov'd.

I trimm'd my lamp, consumed the midnight oil.

Love is a pleasing, but a various clime!

A little bench of heedless bishops here, And there a chancellor in embryo.

Pun-provoking thyme.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblem right meet of decency does yield.

Oft has good-nature been the fool's defence, And honest meaning gilded want of sense.