To ******

0 Nymph! with cheeks of roseate hue,
Whose eyes are violets bath'd in dew,
So liquid, languishing, and blue,
How they bewitch me!
Thy bosom hath a magic spell,
For when its full orbs heave and swell,
I feel but, oh! I must not tell,
Lord! how they twitch me!

Thomas Gent

Thomas Gent was an 18th-century English writer, printer, and bookseller, known predominantly for his historical works. Despite facing numerous financial difficulties, his passion for printing never waned, leading him to chronicle his experiences and the events of his time with a distinct personal touch. His works offer a vivid depiction of 18th-century English life, ensuring his place in literary history.

Thomas Gent

Burlesque Sonnet. To A Bee.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Elegy On The Death Of Abraham Goldsmid, Esq.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

The Gipsy's Home. A Glee.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

On The Death Of Lord Nelson.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

English

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To ------.

Come, JENNY, let me sip the dew
That on those coral lips doth play,
One kiss would every care subdue,
And bid my weary soul be gay.

For surely thou wert form'd by love
To bless the suff'rer's parting sigh;
In pity then my griefs remove,
And on that bosom let me die!

Thomas Gent

Retaliation.

Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate'er
We call that elf, seen every where,
Half frolicsome, half ennuyeuse,
Had chanced a country walk to choose;
When sudden, sweet and bright as May,
Young Beauty tripp'd across his way.--

"Upon my word," exclaims the boy,
"A lucky hit! this pretty toy
To pass an hour, with vapours haunted,
Is quite the thing I wish'd and wanted;
I do not so far condescend
As serious mischief to intend,
But just to show my powers of pleasing
In flattery, badinage, and teasing;
But should she, for young girls, poor things!
Are tender as yon insect's wings--
Should she mistake me, and grow fond,
Why, I'll grow serious--and abscond."

First, not abruptly to confound her,
With glance and smile he hovers round her:...

Thomas Gent

Love.

Love!--what is love? a mere machine, a spring
For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing,
A point to which each scribbling wight most steer,
Or vainly hope for food or favour here;
A summer's sigh; a winter's wistful tale:
A sound at which th' untutor'd maid turns pale;
Her soft eyes languish, and her bosom heaves,
And Hope delights as Fancy's dream deceives.

Thus speaks the heart which cold disgust invades,
When time instructs, and Hope's enchantment fades;
Through life's wide stage, from sages down to kings,
The puppets move, as art directs the strings:
Imperious beauty bows to sordid gold,
Her smiles, whence heaven flows emanent, are sold;
And affectation swells th' entrancing tones,
Which nature subjugates, and truth disowns.

I love th' ingenuous...

Thomas Gent

A Sketch From Life.

She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph
Or naïad, on the mossy, purpled bank
Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet
Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love.
Or like those shapes that on the western clouds
Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl,
And teach the evening winds their melody:
How shall I tell her beauty?--for the eye,
Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam.
One glance, and then no more, upon that brow
Brighter than marble shining through those curls,
Richer than hyacinths when they wave their bells
In the low breathing of the twilight wind.--
One glance upon that lip, beside whose hue
The morning rose would sicken and grow pale,
'Till it was waked again by the soft breath
That steals in music from those lips of love....

Thomas Gent

The Blue-Eyed Maid.

Sweet are the hours when roseate spring
With health and joy salutes the day.
When zephyr, borne on wanton wing,
Soft whispering, wakes the blushing May.
Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet
As when my blue-eyed Maid I meet,
And hear her soul-entrancing tale,
Sequester'd in the shadowy vale.

The mellow horn's long-echoing notes
Startle the morn, commingling strong;
At eve, the harp's wild music floats.
And ravish'd Silence drinks the song.
Yet sweeter is the song of love,
When EMMA'S voice enchants the grove,
While listening sylphs repeat the tale,
Sequester'd in the silent vale.

Thomas Gent

To A Fly, On The Bosom Of Chloe, While Sleeping.

Come away, come away, little fly!
Don't disturb the sweet calm of love's nest:
If you do, I protest you shall die,
And your tomb be that beautiful breast.

Don't tickle the girl in her sleep,
Don't cause so much beauty to sigh;
If she frown, all the Graces will weep;
If she weep, half the Graces will die.

Pretty fly! do not tickle her so;
How delighted to teaze her you seem;
Titillation is dangerous, I know,
And may cause the dear creature to dream.

She may dream of some horrible brute,
Of some genii, or fairy-built spot;
Or perhaps the prohibited fruit,
Or perhaps of--I cannot tell what.

Now she 'wakes! steal a kiss and begone;
Life is precious; away, little fly!
Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn,
You'll meet deat...

Thomas Gent