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Widows are divided into two classes; the bereaved and the relieved.

quote by Victor Robinson
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Two Divided By Zero

(two divided by zero, zero)
(two divided by zero, zero, zero)
Lets not go home, well catch the late train
Ive got enough money to pay all the way
When the postman calls, hell deliver the letter
Ive explained everything; its better that way
(divided by, divided by) I think they heard a rumour
(divided by, divided by) or someone tipped them off
(divided by, divided by) its better to go sooner
(divided by, divided by) than call it all off
Well catch a plane to new york, and a cab going down
Cross the bridges and tunnels, straight into town
Tomorrow morning well be miles away
On another continent and another day
(divided by, divided by) lets not go home
(divided by, divided by) or call it a day
(divided by, divided by) you wont be alone
(divided by, divided by) lets run away
(two divided by zero, zero)
(two divided by zero, zero, zero)
(d...d...d...d...d...divided by)
(divided by, divided by)
(z...z...z...z...z...zero, zero)
(divided by)
(turn of that noise...)
(divided by, divided by) someone spread a rumour
(divided by, divided by zero, zero)
(divided by, divided by) better to go sooner
(divided by, divided by) lets run away
So why hang around for the deed to be done
You can give it all up for a place in the sun
When the postman calls well be miles away
On a plane to new york and another day
(divided by, divided by) I think they heard a rumour
(divided by, divided by) or someone tipped them off
(divided by, divided by) better to go sooner
(divided by, divided by) than call it all off
(divided by, divided by) someone spread a rumour
(divided by, divided by) and someone has to pay
(divided by, divided by) lets not go home
(divided by, divided by) lets run away
(divided by, divided by) lets not go home
(divided by, divided by) lets run away

song performed by Pet Shop Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Widows

The world was widowed by the death of Christ:
Vainly its suffering soul for peace has sought
And found it not.
For nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.

In its long widowhood the world has striven
To find diversion. It has turned away
From the vast awefull silences of Heaven
(Which answer but with silence when we pray)
And sought for something to assuage its grief.
Some surcease and relief
From sorrow, in pursuit of mortal joys.
It drowned God's stillness in a sea of noise;
It lost God's presence in a blur of forms;
Till, bruised and bleeding with life's brutal storms,
Unto immutable and speechless space
The World lifts up its face,
Its haggard, tear-drenched face,
And cries aloud for faith's supreme reward,
The promised Second Coming of its Lord.
So many widows, widows everywhere,
The whole earth teems with widows.
Guns that blare-
Winged monsters of the air-
And deep-sea monsters leaping through the water,
Hell bent on slaughter,
All these plough paths for widows. Maids at dawn,
And brides at noon, ere eventide pass on
Into the ranks of widows: but to weep
Just for a little space; then will grief sleep
In their young bosoms, where sweet hope belongs,
New love will sing once more its age-old songs,
And life bloom as a rose-tree blooms again
After a night of rain.
There are complacent widows clothed in crêpe
Who simulate a grief that is not real.
Through paths of seeming sorrow they escape
From disappointed hopes to some ideal,
Or, from the penury of unloved wives
Walk forth to opulent lives.
And there are widows who shed all their tears
Just at the first
In one wild burst,
And then go lilting lightly down the years:
Black butterflies, they flit from flower to flower
And live in the thin pleasures of the hour;
Merging their tender memories of the dead
In tenderer dreams of being once more wed.

[...] Read more

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Bereavement

Do not get tired from grief as you are bereaved,
And bereavement is relief as you are bereaved.

Do certainty on the scene of writing, when all is leisure
And certain people believe in their belief as you are bereaved.

Does your mind seem a container of science and sea?
Then let feelings go, let them reside away from the thief as you are bereaved.

Does your partner know why marriage is sacred and solid?
Then see him or her with a measure of truth as the chief as you are bereaved.

May surrendering accomplish the goal of a life-time,
May I wish you all the best with your disbelief as you are bereaved.

Let Time fly, let innocence mend the tattered cloths and dress and uniform,
For when a person dies he or she is abject and very brief, as you are bereaved.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Divided

You are divided
For now, for now
You are divided
For now, for now
You are divided
I have a wish, I want to learn
I wish to see, and I want to affirm
That what I see in reflection day to day
Isnt all I am
Say what you see
When you close your eyes and glide
The only shell who could
Circumvent the tide
Sheds of himself
That tells us what he knows
And a piece of him will stay
When the rest of him
Goes
You are divided
For now, for now
You are divided
You are divided
For now, for now
You are divided
I have a wish, I want to learn
I wish to see, and I want to affirm
That what is here, broken record everyday
Isnt all there is
Say what you see, when you close your eyes and glide
The only shell, to circumvent the tide
Shells out himself, and tells us what he knows
A piece of him will stay
A piece of him to stay, helps me grow
The piece of you
That makes you, you
That part stays
You are divided
The piece of you
That makes you, you
That part stays
You are divided
Ahhhhh, ahhhh
Youre only divided
The piece of you
That makes you, you
That piece stays
You are divided
The piece of you
That makes you, you
Dont be afraid

song performed by Incubus
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Divided Highway

Simmons/peterik/fox
Two lanes - twistin down a dusty highway
Two souls - on their way to where it leads
Tail lights - fadin on the far horizon
But theres a detour on the road to destiny
It goes up in a blinding flash
When two reckless worlds collide
You cant avoid the crash
Sometimes in life we ride on
Divided highway - torn in two directions
Speedin out of sight through the night
Divided highway - stranded at the crossroads
Of whats wrong and whos right
Two hearts forgettin what they meant to each other
Too proud ever to admit the truth
Someday itll all seem clear
When two reckless worlds collide
Its gonna turn to tears
Why must we always ride a divided highway
On the road baby no-ones safe
When two reckless worlds collide
When we defend our faith
Thats when in life we ride a divided highway
Shuttin out the other side
Divided highway clingin to our foolish pride
Out on the road nowhere; nowhere to hide
Why must we always ride a divided highway
Torn in two directions; speedin outa sight
Divided highway stranded at the crossroads
Of whats wrong and whos right
Divided highway cuttin through the darkness
Searchin for the light
Divided highway ridin on the fine line
Between day and nite
Divided highway

song performed by Doobie Brothers
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Confessio Amantis. Prologus

Torpor, ebes sensus, scola parua labor minimusque
Causant quo minimus ipse minora canam:
Qua tamen Engisti lingua canit Insula Bruti
Anglica Carmente metra iuuante loquar.
Ossibus ergo carens que conterit ossa loquelis
Absit, et interpres stet procul oro malus.

Of hem that writen ous tofore
The bokes duelle, and we therfore
Ben tawht of that was write tho:
Forthi good is that we also
In oure tyme among ous hiere
Do wryte of newe som matiere,
Essampled of these olde wyse
So that it myhte in such a wyse,
Whan we ben dede and elleswhere,
Beleve to the worldes eere
In tyme comende after this.
Bot for men sein, and soth it is,
That who that al of wisdom writ
It dulleth ofte a mannes wit
To him that schal it aldai rede,
For thilke cause, if that ye rede,
I wolde go the middel weie
And wryte a bok betwen the tweie,
Somwhat of lust, somewhat of lore,
That of the lasse or of the more
Som man mai lyke of that I wryte:
And for that fewe men endite
In oure englissh, I thenke make
A bok for Engelondes sake,
The yer sextenthe of kyng Richard.
What schal befalle hierafterward
God wot, for now upon this tyde
Men se the world on every syde
In sondry wyse so diversed,
That it welnyh stant al reversed,
As forto speke of tyme ago.
The cause whi it changeth so
It needeth nought to specifie,
The thing so open is at ije
That every man it mai beholde:
And natheles be daies olde,
Whan that the bokes weren levere,
Wrytinge was beloved evere
Of hem that weren vertuous;
For hier in erthe amonges ous,
If noman write hou that it stode,
The pris of hem that weren goode

[...] Read more

poem by John Gower
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On My Futon

My futon...
Go ahead and lay your head on it.
Go ahead and rest a bit.
You'll get a benefit of this.

My futon...
Go ahead and lay your head on it.
Go ahead and rest a bit.
You'll feel a benefit of this.

Get off your feet,
On my futon.
Get some sleep,
On my futon.
Be at peace,
On my futon...
That peace you need to keep!

Get off your feet,
On my futon.
Get some sleep,
On my futon.
Be at peace,
On my futon...
That peace you need to keep!

My futon...
Go ahead and lay your head on it.
Go ahead and rest up a bit.
And,
You will feel relieved!

On my futon...
Go ahead and lay your head on it.
Go ahead and rest up a bit.
And,
You will feel relieved!

Get off your feet,
On my futon.
Get some sleep,
On my futon.
Be at peace,
On my futon...
That peace you need to keep!

On my futon...
Go ahead and lay your head on it.
Go ahead and rest up a bit.
And,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Paying Taxes

Done-with-a-minimum.
Donewithaminimum.
Done -with-a-minimum.
Donewithaminimum.

The rich pay...
Donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum.
And some say...
With lifestyles out of reach.

They've got 'moolay'...
Donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum.
And you and I will not be relieved from paying taxes.

The rich pay...
Donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum.
And some say...
With lifestyles out of reach.

They've got 'moolay'...
Donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum.
And you and I will not be relieved from paying taxes.

The money,
The rich have...
Flows nonstop!
Pootoo-poo-too-too-toot!
Pootoo-poo-too-too-toot!

The money,
The rich have...
Many aint got!
Pootoo-poo-too-too-toot!
Pootoo-poo-too-too-toot!

And those poor have paved the way,
For the snobs and snots.
It's clear who are the 'haves' and those 'have nots'.

Oh...
Done-with-a-minimum.
Do newithaminimum.
Done-with-a-minimum.
Donewi thaminimum.

The rich pay...
Donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum.
And some say...
With lifestyles out of reach.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Algebraic Expression of Philippine Education System

A Student (self supporting or parent dependent)
Pays the tuition fee “X” equivalent to the number of classes “Y”
thus, the level of education (quantity = quality) .
However, the final grade “A”
is the difference of classes attended “Y” and absence “Z”.

Where:
X = Tuition Fee
Y = # of Classes
Z = # of Absences
A = Final Grade

A= X=Y
Y - Z

A Teacher (Instructor or Professor)
receives wage “W” equivalent to the number of Classes “C” attended.
Wage “W” is the difference of the classes “Y” and “D” absence.

Where:
C = # of Classes
D = # of Absences
W = Wage

W = ___C____
C – D
____________________________________

Let: X = B and Y = C
X = C and Y = B

But if:
Y and C ≠ X and B

What is the Difference and where does it go,
When it is not Refundable?

Y and C ≠ X and B
∞

∞ is the value of Philippine Education.

Where:
Q1 = Quantity
Q2 = Quality

Value = Quantity
Quality

∞ = Q1 ≠ Q2

[...] Read more

poem by Victorio Pueblo
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The Opposing Sex

The Widows of Ashur
Are loud in their wailing:
'No longer the 'masher'
Sees Widows of Ashur!'
So each is a lasher
Of Man's smallest failing.
The Widows of Ashur
Are loud in their wailing.

The Cave of Adullam,
That home of reviling
No wooing can gull 'em
In Cave of Adullam.
No angel can lull 'em
To cease their defiling
The Cave of Adullam,
That home of reviling.

At men they are cursing
The Widows of Ashur;
Themselves, too, for nursing
The men they are cursing.
The praise they're rehearsing
Of every slasher
At men. _They_ are cursing
The Widows of Ashur.

poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The World Divided

The world first is one
And then it’s divided
To explore the world
And search a better home

The world is divided
And then it united again
By the passion to conquer the world
And find forever glory

The world is united
And then it’s divided again
The rule of living is placed
And the game of power is played

The world is divided
And then it’s blurred
In the darkness of fate
And moral questioned

The world is united
And then it’s shattered
By the nature’s tragedy
And evolution selection

The world is divided
And it tries to be united again
To end meaningless war
And look for compromise peace

The world is united
And then it’s more divided
Of prejudice and pride
And the lust of money

The world is divided
And it’s waiting to be united again
By the dream of children
And the love in the heart

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Widows' Tears; Or, Dirge Of Dorcas

Come pity us, all ye who see
Our harps hung on the willow-tree;
Come pity us, ye passers-by,
Who see or hear poor widows' cry;
Come pity us, and bring your ears
And eyes to pity widows' tears.
CHOR. And when you are come hither,
Then we will keep
A fast, and weep
Our eyes out all together,

For Tabitha; who dead lies here,
Clean wash'd, and laid out for the bier.
O modest matrons, weep and wail!
For now the corn and wine must fail;
The basket and the bin of bread,
Wherewith so many souls were fed,
CHOR. Stand empty here for ever;
And ah! the poor,
At thy worn door,
Shall be relieved never.

Woe worth the time, woe worth the day,
That reft us of thee, Tabitha!
For we have lost, with thee, the meal,
The bits, the morsels, and the deal
Of gentle paste and yielding dough,
That thou on widows did bestow.
CHOR. All's gone, and death hath taken
Away from us
Our maundy; thus
Thy widows stand forsaken.

Ah, Dorcas, Dorcas! now adieu
We bid the cruise and pannier too;
Ay, and the flesh, for and the fish,
Doled to us in that lordly dish.
We take our leaves now of the loom
From whence the housewives' cloth did come;
CHOR. The web affords now nothing;
Thou being dead,
The worsted thread
Is cut, that made us clothing.

Farewell the flax and reaming wool,
With which thy house was plentiful;
Farewell the coats, the garments, and
The sheets, the rugs, made by thy hand;
Farewell thy fire and thy light,
That ne'er went out by day or night:--

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Herrick
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The Iliad: Book 2

Now the other gods and the armed warriors on the plain slept
soundly, but Jove was wakeful, for he was thinking how to do honour to
Achilles, and destroyed much people at the ships of the Achaeans. In
the end he deemed it would be best to send a lying dream to King
Agamemnon; so he called one to him and said to it, "Lying Dream, go to
the ships of the Achaeans, into the tent of Agamemnon, and say to
him word to word as I now bid you. Tell him to get the Achaeans
instantly under arms, for he shall take Troy. There are no longer
divided counsels among the gods; Juno has brought them to her own
mind, and woe betides the Trojans."
The dream went when it had heard its message, and soon reached the
ships of the Achaeans. It sought Agamemnon son of Atreus and found him
in his tent, wrapped in a profound slumber. It hovered over his head
in the likeness of Nestor, son of Neleus, whom Agamemnon honoured
above all his councillors, and said:-
"You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one who has the welfare of his
host and so much other care upon his shoulders should dock his
sleep. Hear me at once, for I come as a messenger from Jove, who,
though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and pities you. He
bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you shall take
Troy. There are no longer divided counsels among the gods; Juno has
brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides the Trojans at
the hands of Jove. Remember this, and when you wake see that it does
not escape you."
The dream then left him, and he thought of things that were,
surely not to be accomplished. He thought that on that same day he was
to take the city of Priam, but he little knew what was in the mind
of Jove, who had many another hard-fought fight in store alike for
Danaans and Trojans. Then presently he woke, with the divine message
still ringing in his ears; so he sat upright, and put on his soft
shirt so fair and new, and over this his heavy cloak. He bound his
sandals on to his comely feet, and slung his silver-studded sword
about his shoulders; then he took the imperishable staff of his
father, and sallied forth to the ships of the Achaeans.
The goddess Dawn now wended her way to vast Olympus that she might
herald day to Jove and to the other immortals, and Agamemnon sent
the criers round to call the people in assembly; so they called them
and the people gathered thereon. But first he summoned a meeting of
the elders at the ship of Nestor king of Pylos, and when they were
assembled he laid a cunning counsel before them.
"My friends," said he, "I have had a dream from heaven in the dead
of night, and its face and figure resembled none but Nestor's. It
hovered over my head and said, 'You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one
who has the welfare of his host and so much other care upon his
shoulders should dock his sleep. Hear me at once, for I am a messenger
from Jove, who, though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and
pities you. He bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you
shall take Troy. There are no longer divided counsels among the
gods; Juno has brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides
the Trojans at the hands of Jove. Remember this.' The dream then

[...] Read more

poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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Emotional prostitute

Waited,
For the sabre
To stab my heart.
Waited,
For the familiar, piercing pain
To appear
As you disappear
Again
from my life.
Waited,
For the breathe
To collapse into
Those Silent sobs.
for my lips to part
in that bereaved grin,
eyes stoned,
gleaming,
non emoting.
As you walk away
Again
Ignoring me.
But this time,
This time
Though the sabre
Stabbed the heart
And bled it
Crimson red.
The pain
Did not pain
As I watched you disappear
Again
from my life'
The breath
Did not collapse
Nor did the lips
Part in that bereaved grin
As you walk away
Again
Ignoring me.
No
Love has not died in my heart.
Its still a rainbow
Sharp
Beyond the dark clouds.
Its just that
I now know
An emotional prostitute
To you
I mean
And a prostitute

[...] Read more

poem by Anjali Kakati
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It Doesnt Have To Be

You are on one side
And I am on the other
Are we divided?
You are on one side
I am on the other
Are we divided?
Why cant we live together
There are no rights
This isnt your decision
We need to talk of changing things
But no one wants to listen
It doesnt have to be like that
It doesnt have to be like that
It doesnt have to be like that
A heart on the inside
The same as any other
Are we divided?
Someone always has to suffer
We are broken
Theres no one left to change it
Is that the way it has to be?
Why cant we rearrange it?
It doesnt have to be like that
(one against one)
It doesnt have to be like that
(one against one)
It doesnt have to be like that
What is the secret
In calling me a brother?
Are we divided?
Always one against the other
We are strong now
Put down the ammunition
For what we know is right
Is gonna breakdown this division
It doesnt have to be like that
(one against one)
It doesnt have to be like that
(one against one)
It doesnt have to be like that
(one against one)
(one against one)
It doesnt have to be like that
You are one side
And I am on the other
Are we divided?

song performed by Erasure
Added by Lucian Velea
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Bleeds Through: Bringer of Modern Clarity

What has the world come to today?
Gas is four dollars a gallon
Inflation is on the increase
Housing markets down
The war continues
And teachers are suffering job loss!
In grade school,
I thought my teachers were evil
They slept inside coffins in the schools basement
Only to rise when they heard my name called
It was a hell for me
When I turned sixteen
I realized how hard it was to be a teacher
With several students under them, three-hundred or more
Makes you wonder why governments are making it harder for them
The classes I suffered through in college taught me the skills I needed
I learned how to apply them later while observing
I admit, I wasn't perfect my first year of teaching
But I learned quick
Why ruin education?
Harder classes for students and less teachers to help
Sure make the classes harder, challenge the students!
Why challenge the teachers?
Twenty-five was my size of classes all my years of learning
Thirty plus is too much to handle effectively
To watch the progress of each through grades in elementary school is unrealistic
It conflicts with my psychology courses with watching only grades
A dying profession the teacher is
Optimism is my muse and savior
To teach the future leaders and core of the worlds work force
Is the only thing keeping me going
Thank you my students
'Good morning class, lets turn to page twenty-four in our math books! '

March 14,2012

poem by Ryan Collins
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Paradise Lost: Book 06

All night the dreadless Angel, unpursued,
Through Heaven's wide champain held his way; till Morn,
Waked by the circling Hours, with rosy hand
Unbarred the gates of light. There is a cave
Within the mount of God, fast by his throne,
Where light and darkness in perpetual round
Lodge and dislodge by turns, which makes through Heaven
Grateful vicissitude, like day and night;
Light issues forth, and at the other door
Obsequious darkness enters, till her hour
To veil the Heaven, though darkness there might well
Seem twilight here: And now went forth the Morn
Such as in highest Heaven arrayed in gold
Empyreal; from before her vanished Night,
Shot through with orient beams; when all the plain
Covered with thick embattled squadrons bright,
Chariots, and flaming arms, and fiery steeds,
Reflecting blaze on blaze, first met his view:
War he perceived, war in procinct; and found
Already known what he for news had thought
To have reported: Gladly then he mixed
Among those friendly Powers, who him received
With joy and acclamations loud, that one,
That of so many myriads fallen, yet one
Returned not lost. On to the sacred hill
They led him high applauded, and present
Before the seat supreme; from whence a voice,
From midst a golden cloud, thus mild was heard.
Servant of God. Well done; well hast thou fought
The better fight, who single hast maintained
Against revolted multitudes the cause
Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms;
And for the testimony of truth hast borne
Universal reproach, far worse to bear
Than violence; for this was all thy care
To stand approved in sight of God, though worlds
Judged thee perverse: The easier conquest now
Remains thee, aided by this host of friends,
Back on thy foes more glorious to return,
Than scorned thou didst depart; and to subdue
By force, who reason for their law refuse,
Right reason for their law, and for their King
Messiah, who by right of merit reigns.
Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince,
And thou, in military prowess next,
Gabriel, lead forth to battle these my sons
Invincible; lead forth my armed Saints,
By thousands and by millions, ranged for fight,
Equal in number to that Godless crew
Rebellious: Them with fire and hostile arms

[...] Read more

poem by John Milton
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Book III - Part 03 - The Soul is Mortal

Now come: that thou mayst able be to know
That minds and the light souls of all that live
Have mortal birth and death, I will go on
Verses to build meet for thy rule of life,
Sought after long, discovered with sweet toil.
But under one name I'd have thee yoke them both;
And when, for instance, I shall speak of soul,
Teaching the same to be but mortal, think
Thereby I'm speaking also of the mind-
Since both are one, a substance interjoined.

First, then, since I have taught how soul exists
A subtle fabric, of particles minute,
Made up from atoms smaller much than those
Of water's liquid damp, or fog, or smoke,
So in mobility it far excels,
More prone to move, though strook by lighter cause
Even moved by images of smoke or fog-
As where we view, when in our sleeps we're lulled,
The altars exhaling steam and smoke aloft-
For, beyond doubt, these apparitions come
To us from outward. Now, then, since thou seest,
Their liquids depart, their waters flow away,
When jars are shivered, and since fog and smoke
Depart into the winds away, believe
The soul no less is shed abroad and dies
More quickly far, more quickly is dissolved
Back to its primal bodies, when withdrawn
From out man's members it has gone away.
For, sure, if body (container of the same
Like as a jar), when shivered from some cause,
And rarefied by loss of blood from veins,
Cannot for longer hold the soul, how then
Thinkst thou it can be held by any air-
A stuff much rarer than our bodies be?

Besides we feel that mind to being comes
Along with body, with body grows and ages.
For just as children totter round about
With frames infirm and tender, so there follows
A weakling wisdom in their minds; and then,
Where years have ripened into robust powers,
Counsel is also greater, more increased
The power of mind; thereafter, where already
The body's shattered by master-powers of eld,
And fallen the frame with its enfeebled powers,
Thought hobbles, tongue wanders, and the mind gives way;
All fails, all's lacking at the selfsame time.
Therefore it suits that even the soul's dissolved,
Like smoke, into the lofty winds of air;

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poem by Lucretius
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Sonnet: On Widows

My heart feels truly sorry for widows,
Who're young and lose their husbands suddenly;
What quirk of fate has given them such woes?
-Of solitude, sexlessness forcefully.

My mind is angered yet, when I behold,
A frantic widow searching for a mate!
Her heart is cold, vixen-like, she is bold;
A female-spider-like, she waits to bait.

My God, how pangs of sex affect women,
Who've tasted love's magic potion on bed?
The widows are much worse off than such men,
Their bosom's fire aren't so easily dead.

Yet, how will widows fight their love onslaughts?
-Companionless, for life, on empty cots?

poem by John Celes
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Palamon And Arcite; Or, The Knight's Tale. From Chaucer. In Three Books. Book I.

In days of old there lived, of mighty fame,
A valiant Prince, and Theseus was his name;
A chief, who more in feats of arms excelled,
The rising nor the setting sun beheld.
Of Athens he was lord; much land he won,
And added foreign countries to his crown.
In Scythia with the warrior Queen he strove,
Whom first by force he conquered, then by love;
He brought in triumph back the beauteous dame,
With whom her sister, fair Emilia, came.
With honour to his home let Theseus ride,
With Love to friend, and Fortune for his guide,
And his victorious army at his side.
I pass their warlike pomp, their proud array,
Their shouts, their songs, their welcome on the way;
But, were it not too long, I would recite
The feats of Amazons, the fatal fight
Betwixt the hardy Queen and hero Knight;
The town besieged, and how much blood it cost
The female army, and the Athenian host;
The spousals of Hippolyta the Queen;
What tilts and turneys at the feast were seen;
The storm at their return, the ladies' fear:
But these and other things I must forbear.

The field is spacious I design to sow
With oxen far unfit to draw the plough:
The remnant of my tale is of a length
To tire your patience, and to waste my strength;
And trivial accidents shall be forborn,
That others may have time to take their turn,
As was at first enjoined us by mine host,
That he, whose tale is best and pleases most,
Should win his supper at our common cost.
And therefore where I left, I will pursue
This ancient story, whether false or true,
In hope it may be mended with a new.
The Prince I mentioned, full of high renown,
In this array drew near the Athenian town;
When, in his pomp and utmost of his pride
Marching, he chanced to cast his eye aside,
And saw a quire of mourning dames, who lay
By two and two across the common way:
At his approach they raised a rueful cry,
And beat their breasts, and held their hands on high,
Creeping and crying, till they seized at last
His courser's bridle and his feet embraced.
“Tell me,” said Theseus, “what and whence you are,
“And why this funeral pageant you prepare?
Is this the welcome of my worthy deeds,

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poem by John Dryden
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