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You don't have to be an heiress to look like one, if you act like one then everyone will just presume you are one.

quote by Paris Hilton
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Cenci : A Tragedy In Five Acts

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Count Francesco Cenci.
Giacomo, his Son.
Bernardo, his Son.
Cardinal Camillo.
Orsino, a Prelate.
Savella, the Pope's Legate.
Olimpio, Assassin.
Marzio, Assassin.
Andrea, Servant to Cenci.
Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants.
Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children.
Beatrice, his Daughter.

The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.
Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.

ACT I

Scene I.
-An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo.

Camillo.
That matter of the murder is hushed up
If you consent to yield his Holiness
Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.-
It needed all my interest in the conclave
To bend him to this point: he said that you
Bought perilous impunity with your gold;
That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded
Enriched the Church, and respited from hell
An erring soul which might repent and live:-
But that the glory and the interest
Of the high throne he fills, little consist
With making it a daily mart of guilt
As manifold and hideous as the deeds
Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes.

Cenci.
The third of my possessions-let it go!
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope
Had sent his architect to view the ground,
Meaning to build a villa on my vines
The next time I compounded with his uncle:
I little thought he should outwit me so!

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Tale VIII

THE MOTHER.

There was a worthy, but a simple Pair,
Who nursed a Daughter, fairest of the fair:
Sons they had lost, and she alone remain'd,
Heir to the kindness they had all obtain'd,
Heir to the fortune they design'd for all,
Nor had th' allotted portion then been small;
And now, by fate enrich'd with beauty rare,
They watch'd their treasure with peculiar care:
The fairest features they could early trace,
And, blind with love saw merit in her face -
Saw virtue, wisdom, dignity, and grace;
And Dorothea, from her infant years,
Gain'd all her wishes from their pride or fears;
She wrote a billet, and a novel read,
And with her fame her vanity was fed;
Each word, each look, each action was a cause
For flattering wonder and for fond applause;
She rode or danced, and ever glanced around,
Seeking for praise, and smiling when she found,
The yielding pair to her petitions gave
An humble friend to be a civil slave,
Who for a poor support herself resign'd
To the base toil of a dependant mind:
By nature cold, our Heiress stoop'd to art,
To gain the credit of a tender heart.
Hence at her door must suppliant paupers stand,
To bless the bounty of her beauteous hand:
And now, her education all complete,
She talk'd of virtuous love and union sweet;
She was indeed by no soft passion moved,
But wished with all her soul to be beloved.
Here, on the favour'd beauty Fortune smiled;
Her chosen Husband was a man so mild,
So humbly temper'd, so intent to please,
It quite distress'd her to remain at ease,
Without a cause to sigh, without pretence to tease:
She tried his patience on a thousand modes,
And tried it not upon the roughest roads.
Pleasure she sought, and disappointed, sigh'd
For joys, she said, 'to her alone denied;'
And she was sure 'her parents if alive
Would many comforts for their child contrive:'
The gentle Husband bade her name him one;
'No--that,' she answered, 'should for her be done;
How could she say what pleasures were around?
But she was certain many might be found.'
'Would she some seaport, Weymouth, Scarborough,

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poem by George Crabbe
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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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S-e-x-x-y

Dressed only in clothes
From her head to her toes
This is the way
The talking part goes
S-e-x-x-y
More than enough
Around the clock with nobody else
S-e-x-x-y
There she is
Standing on the bed
Cookie in one hand, wig on her head
S-e-x-x-y
X because its extra baby
Y because its extra baby
Unnoticed by few
Very very few
And that includes you
Look inside your mind
Look inside your eye
Secret agent spy, come to see why
S-e-x-x-y
One finger nail
Across your back
Babys first gold tooth initials inscribed
S-e-x-x-y
X because its extra baby
Y because its extra baby
You gotta understand
She wants to be your man
Shes got another plan
Notes
The infamous warren rigg microwave remix goes as follows:
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y s-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y s-e-x-x-y

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song performed by They Might Be Giants
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Act Nice & Gentle

You dont need no fancy clothes
Whered you get them, goodness knows?
Just show some civility.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
I dont need no luxuries,
As long as you are understanding,
Im not difficult to please.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Well Im the kind of guy who likes
To take you as I find you
So throw away those false eyelashes and,
Act nice, act nice, baby.
Come on baby, hold my hand.
Come on baby, understand, you gotta
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Come on baby, hold my hand.
Come on baby, understand, you gotta
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.

song performed by Kinks
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I Saw It Myself (Short Verse Drama)

Dramatis Personae: Adrian, his wife Ester, his sisters Rebecca and Johanna, his mother Elizabeth, the high priest Chiapas, the disciple Simon Peter, the disciple John, Mary Magdalene, worshipers, priests, two angels and Jesus Christ.

Act I

Scene I.- Adrian’s house in Jerusalem. Adrian has just returned home after a business journey in Galilee, in time to attend the Passover feast. He sits at the table with his wife Ester and his sisters, Rebecca and Johanna. It’s just before sunset on the Friday afternoon.

Adrian. (Somewhat puzzled) Strange things are happening,
some say demons dwell upon the earth,
others angelic beings, miracles take place
and all of this when they had put a man to death,
had crucified a criminal. Everybody knows
the cross is used for degenerates only!

Rebecca. (With a pleasant voice) Such harsh words used,
for a good, a great man brother?
They say that without charge
he healed the sick, brought back sight,
cured leprosy, even made some more food,
from a few fishes and loafs of bread…

Adrian. (Somewhat harsh) They say many things!
That he rode into Jerusalem
to be crowned as the new king,
was a rebel against the state,
even claimed to be
the very Son of God,
now that is blasphemy
if there is no truth to it!

Johanna. I met him once.
He’s not the man
that you make him, brother.
There was a strange tranquilly to Him.
Some would say a divine presence,
while He spoke of love that is selfless,
visited the sick, the poor
and even the destitute, even harlots.

Adrian. (Looks up) There you have it!
Harlots! Tax collecting thieves!
A man is know by his friends,
or so they say and probably
there is some truth to it.

Ester. Husband, do not be so quick to judge.
I have seen Him myself, have seen
Roman soldiers marching Him to the hill
to take His life, with a angry crowd
following and mocking Him.

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poem by Gert Strydom
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The Two Birth Nights

Bright glittering lights are gleaming in yonder mansion proud,
And within its walls are gathered a gemmed and jewelled crowd;
Robes of airy gauze and satin, diamonds and rubies bright,
Rich festoons of glowing flowers—truly ’tis a wondrous sight.

Time and care and gold were lavished that it might be, every way,
The success of all the season—brilliant fashionable gay.
’Tis the birth night of the heiress of this splendor wealth and state,
The sole child, the only darling, of a household of the great.

Now the strains of the fast galop on the perfumed air arise,
Rosy cheeks are turning carmine, brighter grow the brightest eyes,
As the whirling crowds of dancers pass again and yet again—
Girls coquettish, silly women, vapid and unmeaning men.

’Tis a scene to fill the thoughtful with a silent, vague dismay,
And from its unholy magic we are fain to steal away;
Out here in the quiet moonlight we may pause awhile and rest,
Whilst the solemn stars of heaven bring back peace unto our breast.

Soft! who is the fair young being—she who nightly joins us now,
In a robe of airy lightness, and with jewels on her brow,
Fair as the most fair ideal dreaming poet e’er inspired,
Or as lover, charmed by beauty, ever worshipped and admired.

Strange! what means that look so weary, that long-drawn and painful sigh;
And that gaze, intense and yearning, fixed upon the starlit sky?
Is she not the child of fortune, fortune’s pet and darling bright,
Yes, the beauteous, courted heiress—heroine of the gala night?

From the crowds of ardent lovers, who would beset her way,
Sickened by their whispered flatt’ries, she has coldly turned away;
And, as now the thrilling music falls upon her wearied ear,
She cannot resist a shudder, caused by mingled hate and fear.

“This is pleasure, then,” she murmurs; this is what the world calls bliss,
Oh! for objects less unworthy, for a holier life than this!
I am weary of its folly. O, Great Father, grant my boon:
“From its sinful, silken meshes, I pray Thee, free me soon!”

Did He answer? Now another year has passed with rapid flight,—
O’er the crowded, silent city broods the spirit of the night;
In the sick wards of the convent, fever-stricken, gasping, lies,
One with death’s damps on his brow, and its film o’er his eyes.

There beside him kneels a Sister, in coarse dusky robe and veil,
And with gentle care she moistens those poor lips so dry and pale;
Now she whispers hope and courage, now she tells of Heaven bright—
Thus it is the gentle heiress celebrates her next birth-night.

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poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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V. Count Guido Franceschini

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Take A Look

I don't know what you're after
Wannna know all the details of my disaster
Like an accident on the side of the road
When you're driving past slow but there's nothing to see here
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
I'm some kind of freak now and
You'll never see me the same
What's all the fuss about?
Are you sure you wanna find out?
Cause once you know the truth
You might wish you'd walked away
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
What if I'm not able
To put my cards on the table?
And would it liberate you
If you knew what I knew?
It's been over a year now and
I never saw him again
The facts and the fiction
Collide as the bodies untangle
And the traffic moves on like it did
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look

song performed by Liz Phair
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!

It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!

Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Metamorphoses: Book The Thirteenth

THE chiefs were set; the soldiers crown'd the
field:
To these the master of the seven-fold shield
Upstarted fierce: and kindled with disdain.
Eager to speak, unable to contain
His boiling rage, he rowl'd his eyes around
The shore, and Graecian gallies hall'd a-ground.
The Then stretching out his hands, O Jove, he cry'd,
Speeches of Must then our cause before the fleet be try'd?
Ajax and And dares Ulysses for the prize contend,
Ulysses In sight of what he durst not once defend?
But basely fled that memorable day,
When I from Hector's hands redeem'd the flaming
prey.
So much 'tis safer at the noisie bar
With words to flourish, than ingage in war.
By diff'rent methods we maintain our right,
Nor am I made to talk, nor he to fight.
In bloody fields I labour to be great;
His arms are a smooth tongue, and soft deceit:
Nor need I speak my deeds, for those you see,
The sun, and day are witnesses for me.
Let him who fights unseen, relate his own,
And vouch the silent stars, and conscious moon.
Great is the prize demanded, I confess,
But such an abject rival makes it less;
That gift, those honours, he but hop'd to gain,
Can leave no room for Ajax to be vain:
Losing he wins, because his name will be
Ennobled by defeat, who durst contend with me.
Were my known valour question'd, yet my blood
Without that plea wou'd make my title good:
My sire was Telamon, whose arms, employ'd
With Hercules, these Trojan walls destroy'd;
And who before with Jason sent from Greece,
In the first ship brought home the golden fleece.
Great Telamon from Aeacus derives
His birth (th' inquisitor of guilty lives
In shades below; where Sisyphus, whose son
This thief is thought, rouls up the restless heavy
stone),
Just Aeacus, the king of Gods above
Begot: thus Ajax is the third from Jove.
Nor shou'd I seek advantage from my line,
Unless (Achilles) it was mix'd with thine:
As next of kin, Achilles' arms I claim;
This fellow wou'd ingraft a foreign name
Upon our stock, and the Sisyphian seed
By fraud, and theft asserts his father's breed:
Then must I lose these arms, because I came

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poem by Ovid
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Accordingly

someday everyone will be wise in the future
everyone will be sensible and forward thinking
wear sensible shoes and act accordingly in the future
wise action according to everyone will be the act
of the future everyone will be futuristic someday
according to god according to everyone and their shoes
in the future everyone will be godless and free
act accordingly in the future or else
play accordions wisely in your godless future
in the future accordions will play themselves

act three in the future: there will be no accordions
everyone will get nostalgic for the accordion god
and act as if they were wise in the future
everyone will be according to god
in the future everyone will not act accordingly
wisdom is unholy in the future
to act accordingly is to stay out of trouble
in the future jails will be bigger and much better
everyone will need some punishment in the future
thinking of accordions will be a crime

lawrence welk is a revolutionary in the future
to act accordingly is to act with wisdom
everyone will act as one in the future
accordingly for everyone to act
in the future everyone will be discredited
everyone must act now to avoid the future
be wise and dont act accordingly
play accordions in the street the future cannot
wait for wisdom and forced accord
one chord might save the future

poem by Stephen Roxborough
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Look Who's Dancing

Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Look who's dancing
oh look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Well, first the dance floor
was like a forbidden land
where people would never dare to go
but now everyone's doing it
I said it's a dance galore
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Look who's dancing
oh look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
And some are dancing on their feet
some are jumping off the floor
and look at old Granny "B"
she got the, she caught the, she knows the groove for sure
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now, right around
Look who's dancing
who is dancing
Look who's dancing now, get on the floor
(groove section)
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now, around the world
Look who's dancing
oh look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
And some are dancing on their feet
some are jumping off the floor
and look at old Tauter him
he got the, he got the, he got the, he got the beat for sure
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Look who's dancing
check the dancing
Look who's dancing now, get on the floor
(groove section)
Do the ska, the rock steady, the ridim and blues
and if you catch them, then you do the della move
it nuh mek nuh sense to sit down, when you know you can goove
any type of danve you do, you neither win or lose
And if your choice is reggae, you don't need nuh dancing shoes

[...] Read more

song performed by Ziggy Marley
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Dixie's Land

1 I wish I was in de land ob cotton,
2 Old times dar am not forgotten;
3 Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land!
4 In Dixie Land whar I was born in,
5 Early on one frosty mornin,
6 Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land!

7 Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
8 In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
9 Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
10 Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

11 Ole missus marry 'Will-de-weaber';
12 Willum was a gay deceaber;
13 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
14 But when he put his arm around her,
15 He smiled as fierce as a forty-pounder;
16 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!

17 Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
18 In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
19 Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
20 Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

21 His face was sharp as a butcher's cleaber;
22 But dat did not seem to greab her;
23 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
24 Ole missus acted de foolish part,
25 And died for a man dat broke her heart;
26 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!

27 Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
28 In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
29 Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
30 Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

31 Now here's health to de next ole missus,
32 An' all the gals dat want to kiss us;
33 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
34 But if you want to drive 'way sorrow,
35 Come and hear dis song tomorrow;
36 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!

37 Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
38 In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
39 Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
40 Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

41 Dar's buckwheat cakes an' Injin batter,
42 Makes you fat or a little fatter;

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poem by Daniel Decatur Emmett
Added by Poetry Lover
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Act Of Faith

I tell you honestly,
Dont you go and throw your heart away
I know its so hard to do
Youve got to let go when you want to hold on
I know how much you miss him celebrate what you had
Dont cry about the things left unsaid
Itll do no good
You look for mercy and a meaning somewhere
You know that the hurting wont go
til you walk through the fire
Its gonna take an act of faith stand up and face the day
Its gonna take an act of faith, nobody can make you stay
Its gonna take an act of faith
Maybe love will find its way back into your life
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Stand up, dont you fall
You just take good care of where you are
Youre thinking lifes through with you
Thats not what hed want or what you should do
I know you loved him baby celebrate who he was
I know you know youve got to go on and live your life
Go down to the river of the spirit that runs through you
And lay yourself down in the healing waters
Its gonna take an act of faith stand up and face the day
Its gonna take an act of faith, nobody can make you stay
Its gonna take an act of faith
Maybe love will find its way back into your life
Love is a healer
There is no purpose served in holding on
Love is a healer
There is no understanding why
Love is a healer
There is no sin in you that brought this to your door
My love, it just is
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Its gonna take an act of faith stand up and face the day
Its gonna take an act of faith, nobody can make you stay
Its gonna take an act of faith
Maybe love will find its way back into your life
Its gonna take an act of faith stand up and face the day
Its gonna take an act of faith, nobody can make you stay
Its gonna take an act of faith

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song performed by Rick Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Look

1, 2, 3, 4
Walking like a man
Hitting like a hammer
Shes a juvenile scam
Never was a quitter
Tasty like a raindrop
Shes got the look
Heavenly bound
Cause heavens got a number
When shes spinning me around
Kissing is a colour
Her loving is a wild dog
Shes got the look
Shes got the look, -shes got the look-
Shes got the look, -shes got the look-
What in the world can make a brown-eyed girl turn blue
When everything Ill ever do, Ill do for you
And I go: la la la la la
Shes got the look
Fire in the ice
Naked to the t-bone
Is a lovers disguise
Banging on the head drum
Shaking like a mad bull
Shes got the look
Swaying to the band
Moving like a hammer
Shes a miracle man
Loving is the ocean
Kissing is the wet sand
Shes got the look
Shes got the look, -shes got the look-
Shes got the look, -shes got the look-
What in the world can make a brown-eyed girl turn blue
When everything Ill ever do, Ill do for you
And I go: la la la la la
Shes got the look
Walking like a man
Hitting like a hammer
Shes a juvenile scam
Never was a quitter
Tasty like a raindrop
Shes got the look
And she goes:
Na na na na na,
Na na na na na na,
Na na na na na,
Na na na na na na,
Na na na na na na na na,
Shes got the look

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song performed by Roxette
Added by Lucian Velea
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Canto the Second

I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.

II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

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poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Second Book

TIMES followed one another. Came a morn
I stood upon the brink of twenty years,
And looked before and after, as I stood
Woman and artist,–either incomplete,
Both credulous of completion. There I held
The whole creation in my little cup,
And smiled with thirsty lips before I drank,
'Good health to you and me, sweet neighbour mine
And all these peoples.'
I was glad, that day;
The June was in me, with its multitudes
Of nightingales all singing in the dark,
And rosebuds reddening where the calyx split.
I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God!
So glad, I could not choose be very wise!
And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull
My childhood backward in a childish jest
To see the face of't once more, and farewell!
In which fantastic mood I bounded forth
At early morning,–would not wait so long
As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings,
But, brushing a green trail across the lawn
With my gown in the dew, took will and way
Among the acacias of the shrubberies,
To fly my fancies in the open air
And keep my birthday, till my aunt awoke
To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I murmured on,
As honeyed bees keep humming to themselves;
'The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned
Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone,
And so with me it must be, unless I prove
Unworthy of the grand adversity,–
And certainly I would not fail so much.
What, therefore, if I crown myself to-day
In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it,
Before my brows be numb as Dante's own
To all the tender pricking of such leaves?
Such leaves? what leaves?'
I pulled the branches down,
To choose from.
'Not the bay! I choose no bay;
The fates deny us if we are overbold:
Nor myrtle–which means chiefly love; and love
Is something awful which one dare not touch
So early o' mornings. This verbena strains
The point of passionate fragrance; and hard by,
This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck
Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.
Ah–there's my choice,–that ivy on the wall,
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow

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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Canto the Fifteenth

I
Ah! -- What should follow slips from my reflection;
Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be
As à-propos of hope or retrospection,
As though the lurking thought had follow'd free.
All present life is but an interjection,
An "Oh!" or "Ah!" of joy or misery,
Or a "Ha! ha!" or "Bah!" -- a yawn, or "Pooh!"
Of which perhaps the latter is most true.

II
But, more or less, the whole's a syncopé
Or a singultus -- emblems of emotion,
The grand antithesis to great ennui,
Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, --
That watery outline of eternity,
Or miniature at least, as is my notion,
Which ministers unto the soul's delight,
In seeing matters which are out of sight.

III
But all are better than the sigh supprest,
Corroding in the cavern of the heart,
Making the countenance a masque of rest,
And turning human nature to an art.
Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best;
Dissimulation always sets apart
A corner for herself; and therefore fiction
Is that which passes with least contradiction.

IV
Ah! who can tell? Or rather, who can not
Remember, without telling, passion's errors?
The drainer of oblivion, even the sot,
Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors:
What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float,
He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors;
The ruby glass that shakes within his hand
Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand.

V
And as for love -- O love! -- We will proceed.
The Lady Adeline Amundeville,
A pretty name as one would wish to read,
Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill.
There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

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poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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