The dying swan, when years her temples pierce, In music-strains breathes out her life and verse, And, chanting her own dirge, tides on her wat'ry hearse. — Phineas Fletcher Copy Share Image
The dying swan, when years her temples pierce, In music-strains breathes out her life and verse, And, chanting her own dirge, tides on her… — Phineas Fletcher Copy Share Image
Long open panegyric drags at best, And praise is only praise when well address'd. — Phineas Fletcher Copy Share Image
Drop, drop, slow tears, and bathe those beauteous feet Which brought from heaven the news and prince of peace. Cease not, wet eyes, his… — Phineas Fletcher Copy Share Image
