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I don't think the critics could understand what we were doing.

quote by Jimmy Page
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An Essay on Criticism

Part I

INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,

[...] Read more

poem by Alexander Pope
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English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A Satire

'I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers'~Shakespeare

'Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too,'~Pope.

Still must I hear? -- shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse?
Prepare for rhyme -- I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose,
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride,
The lover's solace, and the author's pride.
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free;
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar today, no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
Inspires -- our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime;
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
And weigh their justice in a golden scale;
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.

Such is the force of wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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All The Critics Love U In New York

U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
U don't have 2 keep the beat
They'll still think it's neat in New York

U can wear what U want 2
It doesn't matter in New York
U could cut off all your hair
I don't think they'd care in New York

All the critics love U in New York

Why U can play what U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
They won't say that U're naive
If U play what U believe in New York

Purple love-amour is all U're in it 4
But don't show it
The reason that U're cool
Is cuz U're from the old school and they know it

All the critics love U in New York

U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York

All the critics love U

song performed by Prince from 1999
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The Rosciad

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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The critic

The status of critics has changed,

The most important critics were those who stood on street

corners

Full of gossip and finger wagging

Or the busty burly matrons whispering over washing lines

These critics were the slanderers

The little vipers who hung by the school gate

Some still do,

This time they sink a pint or two,

In the pub with a couple of pug nose friends

But there is a class of critics

That whitewash your pale white words

Austere and aloof from the proof,

Scrubbed clean and mean,

They murder sentiment

Mock fools without 'a scene'

Redefining the 'new' 'illiterattii, ' who never went to school'

These critics wear brogues.....? ?

Am I being cruel? [or just ironic? ]

The men drink whisky

The women a gin/ vodka and tonic!

Fifty years ago they would 'parade'

In a uniforn of tweed and plaid

Post public school

But some critics just thumbnail through

[...] Read more

poem by Yvette Smith
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Jumper

I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
You could cut ties with all the lies that youve been living in
And if you do not want to see me again I would understand
I would understand
The angry boy a bit too insane
Icing over a secret pain
You know you dont belong
Youre the first to fight
Youre way too loud
Youre the flash of light on a burial shroud
I know somethings wrong
Well everyone I know has got a reason
To say put the past away
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
You could cut ties with all the lies that youve been living in
And if you do not want to see me again I would understand
I would understand
Well hes on the table and hes gone to code
And I do not think anyone knows
What theyre doing here
And your friends have left you
Youve been dismissed
I never thought it would come to this
And i, I want you to know
Everyones got to face down the demons
Maybe today
You could put the past away
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
You could cut ties with all the lies that youve been living in
And if you do not want to see me again I would understand
I would understand
I would understand
I would understand
I would understand
I would understand
Understand
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Can you put the past away
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
I would understand
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
I would understand
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
And I would understand
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
I would understand
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
I would understand

song performed by Third Eye Blind
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We Understand Each Other

We understand each other
Bull!
You hear some distant drummer play
I think we understand each other
Have you no else to offer?
Poor boy!
I have expenses to defray
I hope we understand each other
We have a problem
Yes, but its not that we
Dont understand each other
Oh brother!
When they say understand
They gotta mean fairyland
For twenty tons of silver
She sold him into stir
And when it gets his freedom back
He throws it away over her
When he says understand
He must mean some other girl
Ill never comprehend
My putrid taste in men
Its not fair I love
Each little hair and he
Dont even care about me
When she says understand
Must mean some other man
Our preconceptions to retain
Were obliged to exclaim
We understand each other
We hear some distant drummer play
Must mean we understand each other
Oh brother!
If theres a problem
Well admit it
Not that we dont understand each other
Each other
When they say understand
Its like wendy and peter pan
Have you ever met somebody
More self-involved than he?
This has got to be a miracle
The man has divine empathy
What could be wrong with me?
I know his repartee
Insincere
Hes down
There, Im up here
But whenever hes near
Its some kind of divine empathy

[...] Read more

song performed by Todd Rundgren
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Prove Critics Fools

No matter who does what,
Just do.
No matter who does what,
Just do.
No matter who does what,
Just do.
With a doing to be done...
To do.

And...
Deliver to the people to prove,
Critics fools.
Deliver to the people to prove,
Critics fools.
And deliver to the people to prove,
Critics fools.
Just deliver to the people to prove,
Critics fools.

No matter who does what,
Just do.
No matter who does what,
Just do.
No matter who does what,
Just do.
With a doing to be done...
To do.
With a doing to prove critics fools.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Apology

ADDRESSED TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS.

Tristitiam et Metus.--HORACE.

Laughs not the heart when giants, big with pride,
Assume the pompous port, the martial stride;
O'er arm Herculean heave the enormous shield,
Vast as a weaver's beam the javelin wield;
With the loud voice of thundering Jove defy,
And dare to single combat--what?--A fly!
And laugh we less when giant names, which shine
Establish'd, as it were, by right divine;
Critics, whom every captive art adores,
To whom glad Science pours forth all her stores;
Who high in letter'd reputation sit,
And hold, Astraea-like, the scales of wit,
With partial rage rush forth--oh! shame to tell!--
To crush a bard just bursting from the shell?
Great are his perils in this stormy time
Who rashly ventures on a sea of rhyme:
Around vast surges roll, winds envious blow,
And jealous rocks and quicksands lurk below:
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends;
He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Look through the world--in every other trade
The same employment's cause of kindness made,
At least appearance of good will creates,
And every fool puffs off the fool he hates:
Cobblers with cobblers smoke away the night,
And in the common cause e'en players unite;
Authors alone, with more than savage rage,
Unnatural war with brother authors wage.
The pride of Nature would as soon admit
Competitors in empire as in wit;
Onward they rush, at Fame's imperious call,
And, less than greatest, would not be at all.
Smit with the love of honour,--or the pence,--
O'errun with wit, and destitute of sense,
Should any novice in the rhyming trade
With lawless pen the realms of verse invade,
Forth from the court, where sceptred sages sit,
Abused with praise, and flatter'd into wit,
Where in lethargic majesty they reign,
And what they won by dulness, still maintain,
Legions of factious authors throng at once,
Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
To 'Hamilton's the ready lies repair--
Ne'er was lie made which was not welcome there--
Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought,
The polish'd falsehood's into public brought.

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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They don't understand

They don't understand,
What its like to be me.
They don't understand,
Why school is hard for me.
They don't understand,
Why I'm so skinny.
They don't understand,
Why I have no friends.

They don't understand,
What I need.
They don't understand,
Why I lie.
They don't understand,
Why life is hard.
They don't understand,
What life is like for me.
They don't understand,
Why I hurt.
They don't understand,
Why I have fears.
They don't understand,
Why I'm different.

I don't understand,
Why they don't like me.
I don't understand,
Why they don't except me.
I don't understand,
What they say.
I don't understand,
Why they don't undersatnd,
Me...

poem by Dragon Crenshaw
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Fingertips

Everything is catching
Yes, everything is catching on fire
(everythings catching on fire)
Everything is catching on fire (everythings catching on fire)
Fingertips
Fingertips
Fingertips
I hear the wind blow
I hear the wind blow
It seems to say, hello, hello,
Im the one who loves you so.
Hey now everybody now
Hey now everybody
Hey now everybody now
Whos that standing out my window?
I found a new friend
Underneath my pillow
Come on and wreck my car (come on)
Come on and wreck my car (come on)
Come on and wreck my car (come on)
Come on and wreck my car (come on)
Arent you the guy who hit me in the eye?
Arent you the guy who hit me in the eye?
Please pass the milk, please
Please pass the milk, please
Please pass the milk, please
Leave me alone, leave me alone
Whos knocking on the wall?
All alone all alone
All by myself
Whats that blue thing doing here?
Something grabbed ahold of my hand
I didnt know what had my hand
But thats when all my troubles began
I dont understand you (I dont understand you)
I just dont understand you (I dont understand you)
I dont understand the things you say
I cant understand a single word
I dont understand you (I dont understand you)
I just dont understand you (I dont understand you)
I cannot understand you (I dont understand you)
I dont understand you (I dont understand you)
I heard a sound, I turned around
I turned around to find the thing
That made the sound
Mysterious whisper
Mysterious whisper
Mysterious whisper
Mysterious whisper
The day that love came to play

[...] Read more

song performed by They Might Be Giants
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How Can It Hurt

(music: marillion lyrics: steve hogarth)
Maybe youre just too upset inside to give it to me straight
Maybe youve become too angry and too close to crying to say anything I can understand
Or maybe youre just coming in over my head
Maybe youre just too upset inside too upset inside
How can it hurt if I dont understand
How can it hurt if I dont understand
How can it hurt if I dont understand
How can it hurt if I dont understand
Youre never gonna square with me I know so what is there to say?
Theres a million words that we could share tonight
Why do you walk away?
And I could write you off and its over with like a damaged car I cant afford to fix
But everything inside me wants to heal your pain
You wont explain
You wont explain
How can it hurt if I dont understand
How can it hurt if I dont understand
How can it hurt if I dont understand
How can it hurt if I dont understand
How can it hurt, how can it hurt
Well I dont understand
Well I dont understand
Tell me how can it hurt
Well I dont understand
Tell me how can it hurt
Well I dont understand

song performed by Marillion
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Critics?

Critics?
They do what they do best...
Undress those who create.
It is easier for them to probe,
Than appreciate.
It is a frustration of sorts,
To be boxed within boundaries.
Not knowing or understanding...
What the force behind creativity means,
Or where it begins...
With perceptions taught and conceived.
They have an awareness of it.
Or so some believe.
Although a conformity upon them visits.
But to comprehend what it is...
And why some have it and they don't,
Really makes them pissed.
Although an 'intelligence'
Once applied can hide this.
Is that why they delight in being critics?
As creators sweat to expand their wits,
Critics enjoy deploying...
A complete misunderstanding of it!
As they assist others like themselves...
Attempting to expand minds of limited demands.
Hoping this attachment,
Delivers to them someone's attention span.
And they get it!
That is why there is so many critics.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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May I Have Another Helping of Those Delicious Critics, Please?

What do I have to say,
To those who are my critics?

I have been aware of them,
Since I began taking my first steps.
Since my first breath taken...
Was done independently.

I've heard it said,
My lifetime of actions...
By them has been disapproved.
And things I do have been ego led.

It's believed what I do,
Is done to seek attention.
Even those things I do to cleanse,
In privacy...
I care not mention.

We all have talents,
And those gifts that are given.
How I use the ones I have...
Aren't from a critic's invention.

Or maybe because of the creation of 'them'.
Who knows?

Perhaps that's what has them upset.
And if they have time like that to waste...
Don't hesitate in delay to say,
I am just getting started.
And what I've given to them to nibble...
Is just a little taste.
From a baking not completed,
Yet imaginations rate!

They have no idea,
Of who I am!
Or the making of 'me'.
And-what-that-takes!
Since I'm the cooker who does the feeding...
I know who eats!
And those served,
That ate.

Those who choose to regurgitate...
Do it without my decision given to make!

What do I have to say,
To those who are my critics?

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Something Happened

Something happened
I just don't understand
Something happened
It's making me feel mad
Something happened, you don't hear about
Oh, please that never did before
Something happened
I just don't understand
Something happened
I just don't understand
Something happened
It's making me feel mad, oh
I never saw this on TV
I never read it in no book
ahh
Something happened
I just don't understand
hey, baby, something happened
I just don't understand
something happened
I just don't understand
something happened
I just don't understand
something happened
I just don't understand
something happened
Something happened
I just don't understand
Something happened
It's making me feel mad
I thought I knew a lot of things
but I don't know a thing, oh, oh, oh
Something happened
I just don't understand
The things I hear and see
don't seem the same
The things I touch and feel
are forever changed
I've never felt this way before
and I hope I never do again
Something happened
I don't know why or when
oh, something happened
I just don't understand
something happened
I just don't understand
Doo, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo-doo-doo
something happened
Doo, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo-doo-doo
something happened

[...] Read more

song performed by Lou Reed
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History

I wander lonely streets
I wander lonely streets
Behind where the old thames does flow
Behind where the old thames does flow
And in every face I meet
And in every face I meet
Reminds me of what I have run from
Reminds me of what I have run from
In every man, in every hand
In every man, in every hand
In every kiss, you understand
In every kiss, you understand
That living is for other men
That living is for other men
I hope you two will understand
I hope you two will understand
Ive got to tell you my tale
Of how I loved and how I failed
Ive got to tell you my tale
I hope you understand
Of how I loved and how I failed
I hope you understand
Ive got to tell you my tale
Of how I loved and how I failed
I hope you understand
Ive got to tell you my tale
These feelings should not be in the man
Of how I loved and how I failed
I hope you understand
In every child, in every eye
These feelings should not be in the man
In every sky, above my head
I hope that I know
So come with me in bed
In every child, in every eye
Because its you and me, were history
In every sky, above my head
There aint nothing left to say
I hope that I know
When I will get you alone
So come with me in bed
Because its you and me, were history
Maybe we could find a room
There aint nothing left to say
Where we could see what we should do
When I will get you alone
Maybe you know its true
Living with me is like keeping a fool
Maybe we could find a room
In every man, in every hand

[...] Read more

song performed by Verve
Added by Lucian Velea
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You Don't Come

You don't come. Your absence is a guillotine. My heart
plummets from the altitude it risked in looking forward
to a day with you outside of time and circumstance, jumps
from the edge of paradise, the flat earth, the back
of a winged horse. You don't come and such
is the nature of love
I go out of the plane not knowing
if I've got a parachute on and my heart
pulls the rip cord to see if there's any salvation in the fall,
any flowers for me in the bag, morning glory
or dandelion seed, or this is just another
mode of acceleration to death. You don't come
and my heart candles without a reserve,
I haven't packed a spare dawn
and though I will make every effort to understand
there's a grave waiting down below like an open mouth
and the void is laughing at the persistent folly
of my believing you would come,
and my fear of not being worthy of love anymore
sends my mendicant self-image out
wandering over thirteenth century Europe like some flagellant
on a pilgrimage of flogging, ribbons of blood running down my back
from salted wounds, and though I know
the expectation and the disappointment are both delusions,
birdshit on the claws of a sphinx, and I will try to be
intelligent and wise about the whole thing,
tugging my heart out like a garbage-scow into deep space
where it will be laced with explosives and scuttled once again,
and I will be awarded another paradoxical brownie-badge
by another scout-master Tibetan rinpoche
for knowing how to survive alone in this empty wilderness,
a tiger of will, a Viking of resolve,
an aging clown without children or laughter, a jester-king
officiating from the throneless butt of his own joke,
a poet with nothing to praise, a painter
with cataracts in the eye and flowers in the sky, I
know there is nothing I can tell myself, no spiritual weed
I can poultice over the vacancy that goes on forever
to draw out the infection from my heart, the gangrene
from the broken pillar of the foolish temple I erected
to serve the goddess in any of her lunar phases,
and though I struggle like a diminished thing to accept my dejection,
to imbibe the toxins from the left tit of the Medusa
while trying not to turn into stone, while trying
not to avert my eyes from this crone-form of the moon, let
Kali drink my blood, in the name of insight, clarity and courage,
good wolf, I know this, too, is delusion, another
projected holograph from the third eye of the pineal gland,
and kick the chair from under
the useless fruit of my head in a noose. Back to earth

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Fifth Book

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators

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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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Gotham - Book II

How much mistaken are the men who think
That all who will, without restraint may drink,
May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst,
Pleading no right but merely that of thirst,
At the pure waters of the living well,
Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell!
Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy,
A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy
May play untaught, whilst, without art or force,
Make it but jingle, music comes of course.
Little do such men know the toil, the pains,
The daily, nightly racking of the brains,
To range the thoughts, the matter to digest,
To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest;
To know the times when Humour on the cheek
Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should speak,
And when be silent; when to use the powers
Of ornament, and how to place the flowers,
So that they neither give a tawdry glare,
'Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;'
To form, (which few can do, and scarcely one,
One critic in an age, can find when done)
To form a plan, to strike a grand outline,
To fill it up, and make the picture shine
A full and perfect piece; to make coy Rhyme
Renounce her follies, and with Sense keep time;
To make proud Sense against her nature bend,
And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her friend.
Some fops there are, amongst the scribbling tribe,
Who make it all their business to describe,
No matter whether in or out of place;
Studious of finery, and fond of lace,
Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings,
The rags of beggars, and the robes of kings.
Let dull Propriety in state preside
O'er her dull children, Nature is their guide;
Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fence
Of those tame drudges, Judgment, Taste, and Sense,
Nor would forgive herself the mighty crime
Of keeping terms with Person, Place, and Time.
Let liquid gold emblaze the sun at noon,
With borrow'd beams let silver pale the moon;
Let surges hoarse lash the resounding shore,
Let streams meander, and let torrents roar;
Let them breed up the melancholy breeze,
To sigh with sighing, sob with sobbing trees;
Let vales embroidery wear; let flowers be tinged
With various tints; let clouds be laced or fringed,
They have their wish; like idle monarch boys,
Neglecting things of weight, they sigh for toys;

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poem by Charles Churchill
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

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poem by Robert Browning (1871)
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