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Resentment is weak and lowers your self-esteem.

quote by Barbara Sher
Added by Lucian Velea
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Oooo...Oooo-Oooo Wee Ow-ouch!

'I'm more dominant and not the weak one.
More dominant and not the weak one.
I'm more dominant and not the weak one.
More dominant and not the weak one.'

Oooo...
Oooo-Oooo wee ow-ouch!

'More dominant and not the weak one.
I'm more dominant and not the weak one.'

Oooo...
Oooo-Oooo wee ow-ouch!

She says I'm on a pacifier.
Unreliable with too many needs.
She says I'm heat under the sheets...
But she's the one who buys the food we eat.

She says I'm not dependable at all.
And by herself she does the best she can alone,
To make all ends meet!
When bill collectors call.
And,
She's more dominant and not the weak one.
More dominant and not the weak one.

Oooo...
Oooo-Oooo wee ow-ouch.
More dominant and not the weak one?
More dominant and not the weak one?

Submissive when she comes to the bed.
Prepared to get her needs met!
And I am ever ready.

I've lost my job and the kids are fed.
I do the best I can...
But I'm not making the bread.
And my ego's thinly spread.
When the work I've done is meager.
And the words I hear from her...
Are wrestling in my head.

'I'm more dominant and not the weak one.
More dominant and not the weak one.'
OW!
'...dominant and not the weak one.
More dominant and not the weak one.'
OW!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Strength in weakness

Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness

A typical Pauline sophism?
A typical Pauline syllogism?
A typical Pauline casuistry?
A typical Pauline homily.

Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness

Paul was disabled, you see
Was he blind? You ask
Was he lame? You ask
Was it a speech impediment?

Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness

Oh! He was strong in spirit
But weak in appearance
He can’t be our leader, they said
He’s an embarrassment

Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness

Paul said: “Yes, I am weak
But God’s strength is made perfect
In my weakness not in my strength
So up the weak and down the strong! (my words!)

Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness

We are all weak in some way
Weak in our words
Weak in our walk
Weak in our talk

[...] Read more

poem by James Hart
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I Get Weak

When Im with you
I shake inside
My hearts all tangled up
My tongue is tied its crazy
Cant walk, cant talk, cant eat, cant sleep
Oh, Im in love, oh Im in deep cuz baby
With a kiss you can strip me defenseless
With a touch I completely lose control
til all thats left of my strength is a memory, wo...
I get weak when I look at you
Weak when we touch
I cant speak when I look in your eyes
I get weak when youre next to me
Weak from this love
I cant speak when I look in your eyes
I get weak
Convincing eyes, persuasive lips
The helpless heart just cant resist their power
You know youve got a hold over me
You know youve got me where I want to be cuz lover
Like a wave you keep pulling me under
How Ill ever get out of this I dont know
I just know theres just no way to fight it, wo...
I get weak when I look at you
Weak when we touch
I cant speak when I look in your eyes
I get weak when youre next to me
Weak from this love
Im in deep when I look in your eyes
I get weak I get weak I get weak
Just a kiss you can strip me defenseless
Just a touch I completely lose control
til all thats left of my strength is a memory, wo...
I get weak when I look at you
Weak when we touch
I cant speak when I look in your eyes
I get weak when youre next to me
Weak from this love
I cant speak when I look in your eyes
I get weak I get weak I get weak

song performed by Belinda Carlisle
Added by Lucian Velea
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Weak

(1) Lost in time
I can't count the words
I said when I thought
They went unheard
All of these harsh thought
So unkind
"Cause I wanted you
I wanted you
And now I sit here
I'm all alone
So here sits a bloody mess
Tears fly home
A circle of angels
Deep in war
'Cause I wanted you
I wanted you
Weak as I am
No tears for you
Weak as I am
No tears for you
Deep as I am
I'm no one's fool
Weak as I am
So what am I now
But love's last home
I'm all of the soft words
I once owned
If I opened my heart
There'd be no space for air
'cause I wanted you
I wanted you
Weak as I am
No tears for you
Weak as I am
I'm too much for you
Deep as I am
I'm no one's fool
Weak as I am
With this changing soul
In this weak old heart
Oh baby, ain't I too much for you
With this changing soul
In this weak old heart
Oh baby, ain't I too much for you
[Repeat (1)]
Weak as I am
No tears for you
Weak as 'I'm nobody's fool
Deep as I am
No tears for you

[...] Read more

song performed by Rod Stewart
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Challenge

I had a dream
To challenge a scheme
And with my scheme
I shattered my dream
I had a scheme
To challenge a dream
And with my dream
I shattered my scheme
The scheme the brain and the dream
They challenged my self-esteem
I had a brain that conceived the dream
That challenged the scheme
That shattered the dream
That challenged my self-esteem
I had a brain that conceived the scheme
That challenged the dream
That shattered the scheme
That challenged my self-esteem
The brain the scheme and the dream
They challenged my self-esteem
With my self-esteem,
I challenge my scheme
To challenge my brain
To conceive the dream
That shattered the scheme
With my, scheme
I challenge my self-esteem
To challenge my brain
To conceive the dream
That shattered my self-esteem
With my, dream
I challenge my self-esteem
To challenge my brain
To conceive the scheme
That shattered the dream
My self-esteem the brain and the dream
They challenged the scheme

6/20/07

poem by Jim Milks
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To Hide In Disguise Those Weak and Fragile

Although their calculated misdeeds succeeded,
They appear to now fear...
The repercussions of their activities.
And looking weak and fragile...
Without the armor worn to adorn their fetes.

Guaranteed to show in battle defeat,
That enemy to knock off their feet.
And from them to squeeze a victory sweet.
To hide in disguise those weak and fragile.

Although their calculated misdeeds succeeded,
They appear to now fear...
The repercussions of their activities.
And looking weak and fragile...
Without the armor worn to adorn their fetes.

Guaranteed to show in battle defeat,
That enemy to knock off their feet.
And from them to squeeze a victory sweet.
To hide in disguise those weak and fragile.

And from them to squeeze a victory sweet.
To hide in disguise those weak and fragile.
And from them to squeeze a victory sweet.
To hide in disguise those weak and fragile.
And from them to squeeze a victory sweet.
To hide in disguise those weak and fragile.
To hide in disguise those weak and fragile.
To hide in disguise those weak and fragile.

And from them to squeeze a victory sweet.
To hide in disguise those weak and fragile.
And from them to squeeze a victory sweet.
To hide in disguise those weak and fragile.
To hide in disguise those weak and fragile.
To hide in disguise those weak and fragile.

And from them to squeeze a victory sweet.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Resentment?

Resentment?
I have never met anyone,
With abilities and skills...
That expressed a resentment,
Towards anyone seeking to be convinced...
Talents they possess,
Could be used at someone else's benefit.
And there to easily access.
But had been ignored,
For another sought to address...
That left them with an impression to express.

Resentment?
How many people do you know,
Would give up their expertise freely?
To confess to anyone,
That a giving up of their unpaid time...
Had been rejected,
Without a compensation of payment done.
To allow a continuance of their peace of mind?
And this they kept protected.
Acknowledging how this was difficult to find.

Resentment?
I doubt very seriously if they had that feeling.
Perhaps relieved...
What they brought to offer to others,
Had not been dissected or scrutinized.
With a diluting done of their freely given abilities.

Resentment?
Would not be the word I'd use,
To define their state of mind.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Tale XI

ARABELLA.

Of a fair town where Doctor Rack was guide,
His only daughter was the boast and pride -
Wise Arabella, yet not wise alone,
She like a bright and polish'd brilliant shone;
Her father own'd her for his prop and stay,
Able to guide, yet willing to obey;
Pleased with her learning while discourse could

please,
And with her love in languor and disease:
To every mother were her virtues known,
And to their daughters as a pattern shown;
Who in her youth had all that age requires,
And with her prudence all that youth admires:
These odious praises made the damsels try
Not to obtain such merits, but deny;
For, whatsoever wise mammas might say,
To guide a daughter, this was not the way;
From such applause disdain and anger rise,
And envy lives where emulation dies.
In all his strength contends the noble horse
With one who just precedes him on the course,
But when the rival flies too far before,
His spirit fails, and he attempts no more.
This reasoning Maid, above her sex's dread,
Had dared to read, and dared to say she read;
Not the last novel, not the new-born play;
Not the mere trash and scandal of the day;
But (though her young companions felt the shock)
She studied Berkeley, Bacon, Hobbes and Locke:
Her mind within the maze of history dwelt,
And of the moral Muse the beauty felt;
The merits of the Roman page she knew,
And could converse with More and Montague:
Thus she became the wonder of the town,
From that she reap'd, to that she gave renown;
And strangers coming, all were taught t'admire
The learned lady, and the lofty spire.
Thus fame in public fix'd the Maid where all
Might throw their darts, and see the idol fall:
A hundred arrows came with vengeance keen,
From tongues envenom'd, and from arms unseen;
A thousand eyes were fix'd upon the place,
That, if she fell, she might not fly disgrace:
But malice vainly throws the poison'd dart,
Unless our frailty shows the peccant part;
And Arabella still preserved her name
Untouch'd, and shone with undisputed fame;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Conversation

Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense
To every man his modicum of sense,
And Conversation in its better part
May be esteem'd a gift, and not an art,
Yet much depends, as in the tiller’s toil,
On culture, and the sowing of the soil.
Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse,
But talking is not always to converse;
Not more distinct from harmony divine,
The constant creaking of a country sign.
As alphabets in ivory employ,
Hour after hour, the yet unletter’d boy,
Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee
Those seeds of science call’d his a b c;
So language in the mouths of the adult,
Witness its insignificant result,
Too often proves an implement of play,
A toy to sport with, and pass time away.
Collect at evening what the day brought forth,
Compress the sum into its solid worth,
And if it weigh the importance of a fly,
The scales are false, or algebra a lie.
Sacred interpreter of human thought,
How few respect or use thee as they ought!
But all shall give account of every wrong,
Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue;
Who prostitute it in the cause of vice,
Or sell their glory at a market-price;
Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon,
The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buffoon.
There is a prurience in the speech of some,
Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them dumb;
His wise forbearance has their end in view,
They fill their measure and receive their due.
The heathen lawgivers of ancient days,
Names almost worthy of a Christian’s praise,
Would drive them forth from the resort of men,
And shut up every satyr in his den.
Oh, come not ye near innocence and truth,
Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth!
Infectious as impure, your blighting power
Taints in its rudiments the promised flower;
Its odour perish’d, and its charming hue,
Thenceforth ‘tis hateful, for it smells of you.
Not e’en the vigorous and headlong rage
Of adolescence, or a firmer age,
Affords a plea allowable or just
For making speech the pamperer of lust;
But when the breath of age commits the fault,
‘Tis nauseous as the vapour of a vault.

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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Refuse To Be The One With That Title

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be one idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be one idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Looking ahead and keeping one's faith,
With a hold that shows one bridled.
Are the ones who never wait too late...
Until time from them has escaped.

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be...idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Procrastinators are the ones to make mistakes.
And found to be...idle.
As they watch time from them fly right by...
While trying to catch up with slow strides.

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be one idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be...idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Procrastinators are the ones to make mistakes.
And found to be those idle.
While trying to catch up with slow strides,
As they watch time from them fly right by.

Don't procrastinate and find it's much too late.
Refuse to be the one left idle.
Don't procrastinate and find it's much too late.
Refuse to be the one left idle.
Don't procrastinate and find it's much too late.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Knees Of My Bees

we share a culture same vernacular
love of physical humor and time spent alone
you with your penchant for spontaneous events
for sticky and raspy, unearthed and then gone
you are a gift promised sent with a wink
with tendencies for conversations that raise bars
you are a sage who is fueled by compassion
comes to nooks and crannies, is bound for all stars
you make the knees of my bees weak, tremble and buckle
you make the knees of my bees weak
you are a spirit that knows of no limit
that knows of no ceiling who baulks at dead-ends
you are a wordsmith who cares for his brothers
not seduced by illusions of fair-weather friends
you make the knees of my bees weak, tremble and buckle
you make the knees of my bees weak
you are a vision who lives by the signals of
stomach and intuition as your guide
you are a sliver of god on a platter
who walks what he talks and who cops when hes lied
you make the knees of my bees weak, tremble and buckle
you make the knees of my bees weak
you make the knees of my bees weak, tremble and buckle
you make the knees of my bees weak
you make the knees of my bees weak, tremble and buckle
you make the knees of my bees weak

song performed by Alanis Morissette
Added by Lucian Velea
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I Am Fred Astaire

I'm under the assumption
that I'm gonna be the one thats leaving you
tonight, tonight...
Well I flipped every switch
that I could find on my way out just to upset you more
(just to keep you busy) just to make you angry (just because you were right) just because you were...
All tired scream safe haven,
Let's get this out and on the table...
Fast forward to say four o'clock,
I'm keeping time, I'm holdin', we're always holdin',
(we're always holdin), we're always holdin, holding out...
And that's what got us here in the first place,
you should have never come here alone
(you should have never bothered at all), bothered at all...
Scream older and wiser, still filled with resentment
We get it, we get it...Oh (I haven't been happier since)
Older and wiser, still filled with resentment
We get it, we get it...Oh, Bree Ann (I haven't been happier since, I haven't been happier, not since.)
Well five o'clock the floor caught fire with footsteps (my footsteps)
And spread like a disease to the door
(I'm stuttering through it but I hear it) I-I-I hear its good t-t-to stick to what you know
And you know a whole lot of this, it all could have been avoided when
you were courtside for this nightmare,
Well since then I got myself come and listen...
Older and wiser, still filled with resentment
We get it, we get it...Oh (I haven't been happier since)
Older and wiser, still filled with resentment
We get it, we get it...Oh, Bree Ann (I haven't been happier since)
I haven't been happier since (Bree Ann)
I haven't been happier since (Bree Ann)
I haven't been happier since (Bree Ann)
I haven't been happier not since...
Well, it used to take so much more (I used to, I used to too)
It used to take so much more (I used to, I used to too)
I used to, I used to too...

song performed by Taking Back Sunday
Added by Lucian Velea
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Experience

--A COSTLY good ; that none e'er bought or sold
For gem, or pearl, or miser's store, twice told :
Save certain watery pearls, possessed by all,
Which, one by one, may buy it as they fall.
Of these, though precious, few will not suffice,
So slow the traffic, and so large the price !

It is for wrinkled brows, grey locks, and sighs,
Not for bright blooming cheeks and sparkling eyes ;
When those have faded, these as dimly shine--
Then, in their stead, Experience may be thine.
Books will assert, and sires and pulpits teach,
And youth may listen to their sober speech,
And smiling lips pronounce a careless 'yes,'
While neither eye nor heart can acquiesce.
But grief extorts conviction ; brings to view
Those slightest words, and answers--'very true.'
Surprised, reluctant, yet at last compelled
To own, what long in doubtful scale was held,
That life, whate'er the course our own has led,
Is much the same as what our fathers said.

A tattered cottage, to the view of taste,
In beauty glows, at needful distance placed :
Its broken panes, its richly ruined thatch,
Its gable graced with many a mossy patch,
The sunset lighting up its varied dyes,
Form quite a picture to poetic eyes ;
And yield delight that modern brick and board,
Square, sound, and well arranged, would not afford.
But, cross the mead to take a nearer ken,--
Where all the magic of the vision then ?
The picturesque is vanished, and the eye,
Averted, turns from loathsome poverty ;
And while it lingers, e'en the sun's pure ray
Seems almost sullied by its transient stay.
The broken walls, with slight repairs embossed,
Are but cold comforts in a winter's frost :
No smiling, peaceful peasant, half refined,
There tunes his reed on rustic seat reclined ;
But there the bended form and haggard face,
Worn with the lines that vice and misery trace.
Thus fades the charm, by vernal hope supplied
To every object it has never tried ;
--To fairy visions, and elysian meads,
Thus vulgar, cold reality succeeds.

When sanguine youth the plain of life surveys,
It does not calculate on rainy days.
Some, as they enter on the unknown way,

[...] Read more

poem by Jane Taylor
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The Child Of The Islands - Autumn

I.

BROWN Autumn cometh, with her liberal hand
Binding the Harvest in a thousand sheaves:
A yellow glory brightens o'er the land,
Shines on thatched corners and low cottage-eaves,
And gilds with cheerful light the fading leaves:
Beautiful even here, on hill and dale;
More lovely yet where Scotland's soil receives
The varied rays her wooded mountains hail,
With hues to which our faint and soberer tints are pale.
II.

For there the Scarlet Rowan seems to mock
The red sea coral--berries, leaves, and all;
Light swinging from the moist green shining rock
Which beds the foaming torrent's turbid fall;
And there the purple cedar, grandly tall,
Lifts its crowned head and sun-illumined stem;
And larch (soft drooping like a maiden's pall)
Bends o'er the lake, that seems a sapphire gem
Dropt from the hoary hill's gigantic diadem.
III.

And far and wide the glorious heather blooms,
Its regal mantle o'er the mountains spread;
Wooing the bee with honey-sweet perfumes,
By many a viewless wild flower richly shed;
Up-springing 'neath the glad exulting tread
Of eager climbers, light of heart and limb;
Or yielding, soft, a fresh elastic bed,
When evening shadows gather, faint and dim,
And sun-forsaken crags grow old, and gaunt, and grim.
IV.

Oh, Land! first seen when Life lay all unknown,
Like an unvisited country o'er the wave,
Which now my travelled heart looks back upon,
Marking each sunny path, each gloomy cave,
With here a memory, and there a grave:--
Land of romance and beauty; noble land
Of Bruce and Wallace; land where, vainly brave,
Ill-fated Stuart made his final stand,
Ere yet the shivered sword fell hopeless from his hand--
V.

I love you! I remember you! though years
Have fleeted o'er the hills my spirit knew,
Whose wild uncultured heights the plough forbears,
Whose broomy hollows glisten in the dew.

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Candidate

This poem was written in , on occasion of the contest between the
Earls of Hardwicke and Sandwich for the High-stewardship of the
University of Cambridge, vacant by the death of the Lord Chancellor
Hardwicke. The spirit of party ran high in the University, and no
means were left untried by either candidate to obtain a majority. The
election was fixed for the th of March, when, after much
altercation, the votes appearing equal, a scrutiny was demanded;
whereupon the Vice-Chancellor adjourned the senate _sine die_. On
appeal to the Lord High-Chancellor, he determined in favour of the
Earl of Hardwicke, and a mandamus issued accordingly.

Enough of Actors--let them play the player,
And, free from censure, fret, sweat, strut, and stare;
Garrick abroad, what motives can engage
To waste one couplet on a barren stage?
Ungrateful Garrick! when these tasty days,
In justice to themselves, allow'd thee praise;
When, at thy bidding, Sense, for twenty years,
Indulged in laughter, or dissolved in tears;
When in return for labour, time, and health,
The town had given some little share of wealth,
Couldst thou repine at being still a slave?
Darest thou presume to enjoy that wealth she gave?
Couldst thou repine at laws ordain'd by those
Whom nothing but thy merit made thy foes?
Whom, too refined for honesty and trade,
By need made tradesmen, Pride had bankrupts made;
Whom Fear made drunkards, and, by modern rules,
Whom Drink made wits, though Nature made them fools;
With such, beyond all pardon is thy crime,
In such a manner, and at such a time,
To quit the stage; but men of real sense,
Who neither lightly give, nor take offence,
Shall own thee clear, or pass an act of grace,
Since thou hast left a Powell in thy place.
Enough of Authors--why, when scribblers fail,
Must other scribblers spread the hateful tale?
Why must they pity, why contempt express,
And why insult a brother in distress?
Let those, who boast the uncommon gift of brains
The laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains;
Fresh on their brows for ages let it bloom,
And, ages past, still flourish round their tomb.
Let those who without genius write, and write,
Versemen or prosemen, all in Nature's spite,
The pen laid down, their course of folly run
In peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone.
Why should I tell, to cross the will of Fate,
That Francis once endeavour'd to translate?
Why, sweet oblivion winding round his head,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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The Convocation: A Poem

When Vertue's Standard Ecclesiasticks bear,
Their sacred Robe the noblest Minds revere.
All to its Guidance do their Thoughts submit,
But such who triumph in licentious Wit;
And nauseous Mirth as high Desert esteem,
When rais'd by Scorn upon Religion's Theme
As Kings by Right Divine o'er Nations sway,
As the most worthy, their high Pow'rs obey;
Homage by all is to the Priesthood born,
And none but Fools their Heav'nly Pastors scorn.

Yet censure not the Muse's Freedom here:
If urg'd by Errors, she must seem severe!
Tho' keen her Satyr, she no Envy bears;
Tho' Priests she lashes, she their Function spares.
Nor for ill Members such the Clergy calls,
But on their Shame, and not their Glory, falls.

Of all the Plagues with which the World is curst,
Time has still prov'd that Priestcraft is the worst.
By some, what Notions thro' the World are spread?
On Falshoods grounded, and from Int'rest bred;
Errour has still the giddy World perplext,
Whilst Scripture gilds it with some sacred Text.
This wild Opinions Strife and Faction brings,
The Bane of Nations, the Misrule of Kings.
Priests oft profane what they from Heav'n derive;
Some live by Legends, some by Murders thrive,
Some sell their Gods, and Altar-Rites deface,
With Doctrines some the Brain-sick People craze.

The Pagan prey on slaughter'd Wretches Fates,
The Romish fatten on the best Estates,
The British stain what Heav'n has right confest,
And Sectaries the Scriptures falsly wrest.

Amongst the Tribe, how few are, as they ought,
Clear in their Souls, instructive in their Thought!
The Good, like Prophets, shew their Precepts pure;
The Ill with Craft the Heav'nly Light obscure;
False to their Trust, they lead their Flocks astray,
And with their Errors cloud the sacred Way.

Tho' artless Numbers may my Verses throng,
Yet now Religion's Cause inspires my Song:

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Savage
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Rosalind and Helen: a Modern Eclogue

ROSALIND, HELEN, and her Child.

SCENE. The Shore of the Lake of Como.

HELEN
Come hither, my sweet Rosalind.
'T is long since thou and I have met;
And yet methinks it were unkind
Those moments to forget.
Come, sit by me. I see thee stand
By this lone lake, in this far land,
Thy loose hair in the light wind flying,
Thy sweet voice to each tone of even
United, and thine eyes replying
To the hues of yon fair heaven.
Come, gentle friend! wilt sit by me?
And be as thou wert wont to be
Ere we were disunited?
None doth behold us now; the power
That led us forth at this lone hour
Will be but ill requited
If thou depart in scorn. Oh, come,
And talk of our abandoned home!
Remember, this is Italy,
And we are exiles. Talk with me
Of that our land, whose wilds and floods,
Barren and dark although they be,
Were dearer than these chestnut woods;
Those heathy paths, that inland stream,
And the blue mountains, shapes which seem
Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream;
Which that we have abandoned now,
Weighs on the heart like that remorse
Which altered friendship leaves. I seek
No more our youthful intercourse.
That cannot be! Rosalind, speak,
Speak to me! Leave me not! When morn did come,
When evening fell upon our common home,
When for one hour we parted,--do not frown;
I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken;
But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token
Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown,
Turn, as 't were but the memory of me,
And not my scornèd self who prayed to thee!

ROSALIND
Is it a dream, or do I see
And hear frail Helen? I would flee
Thy tainting touch; but former years
Arise, and bring forbidden tears;

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Are Women Weak?

Around the world women
Are considered weak
Making them invisible

In most societies
Demarcation lines at front and rear
Women stand putting themselves in gear
Working in fear
'At home is where she should be'
But her inner eyes help her to see
That she will be free

Are women weak?
Doing the work of man
'Yes! they can.

Keeping the house from a band
Working as hard as any man
Are women weak?

Expecting nothing but doing everything
Enough to make ones heart sing
A goddess in her own right

Deeply crying in the night,
But never losing sight
Are women weak?

Taking up where the man left off
Leaving her the boss...
The unheard of she does

Her voice slowly whispers
'I'll be free the woman in me'
Punish me if you most

I can rise from the dust
Are women weak?
Having a child here and there

Maybe that is not fair,
And that make no delays
Even when the man is out to play

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poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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Paradise Regained

THE FIRST BOOK

I, WHO erewhile the happy Garden sung
By one man's disobedience lost, now sing
Recovered Paradise to all mankind,
By one man's firm obedience fully tried
Through all temptation, and the Tempter foiled
In all his wiles, defeated and repulsed,
And Eden raised in the waste Wilderness.
Thou Spirit, who led'st this glorious Eremite
Into the desert, his victorious field
Against the spiritual foe, and brought'st him thence 10
By proof the undoubted Son of God, inspire,
As thou art wont, my prompted song, else mute,
And bear through highth or depth of Nature's bounds,
With prosperous wing full summed, to tell of deeds
Above heroic, though in secret done,
And unrecorded left through many an age:
Worthy to have not remained so long unsung.
Now had the great Proclaimer, with a voice
More awful than the sound of trumpet, cried
Repentance, and Heaven's kingdom nigh at hand 20
To all baptized. To his great baptism flocked
With awe the regions round, and with them came
From Nazareth the son of Joseph deemed
To the flood Jordan--came as then obscure,
Unmarked, unknown. But him the Baptist soon
Descried, divinely warned, and witness bore
As to his worthier, and would have resigned
To him his heavenly office. Nor was long
His witness unconfirmed: on him baptized
Heaven opened, and in likeness of a Dove 30
The Spirit descended, while the Father's voice
From Heaven pronounced him his beloved Son.
That heard the Adversary, who, roving still
About the world, at that assembly famed
Would not be last, and, with the voice divine
Nigh thunder-struck, the exalted man to whom
Such high attest was given a while surveyed
With wonder; then, with envy fraught and rage,
Flies to his place, nor rests, but in mid air
To council summons all his mighty Peers, 40
Within thick clouds and dark tenfold involved,
A gloomy consistory; and them amidst,
With looks aghast and sad, he thus bespake:--
"O ancient Powers of Air and this wide World
(For much more willingly I mention Air,
This our old conquest, than remember Hell,
Our hated habitation), well ye know
How many ages, as the years of men,

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poem by John Milton
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The Believer's Jointure : Chapter II.

Containing the Marks and Characters of the Believer in Christ; together with some further privileges and grounds of comfort to the Saints.

Sect. I.

Doubting Believers called to examine, by marks drawn from their love to Him and his presence, their view of his glory, and their being emptied of Self-Righteousness, &c.

Good news! but, says the drooping bride,
Ah! what's all this to me?
Thou doubt'st thy right, when shadows hide
Thy Husband's face from thee.

Though sin and guilt thy spirit faints,
And trembling fears thy fate;
But harbour not thy groundless plaints,
Thy Husband's advent wait.

Thou sobb'st, 'O were I sure he's mine,
This would give glad'ning ease;'
And say'st, Though wants and woes combine,
Thy Husband would thee please.

But up and down, and seldom clear,
Inclos'd with hellish routs;
Yet yield thou not, nor foster fear:
Thy Husband hates thy doubts.

Thy cries and tears may slighted seem,
And barr'd from present ease;
Yet blame thyself, but never dream
Thy Husband's ill to please.

Thy jealous unbelieving heart
Still droops, and knows not why;
Then prove thyself to ease thy smart,
Thy Husband bids the try.

The following questions put to the
As scripture-marks, may tell
And shew, what'er thy failings be,
Thy Husband loves thee well.

MARKS.

Art thou content when he's away?
Can earth allay thy pants?
If conscience witness, won't it say,
Thy Husband's all thou wants?

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poem by Ralph Erskine
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