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Dickens is one of those authors who are well worth stealing.

quote by George Orwell
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The Example of Vertu : Cantos I.-VII.

Here begynneth the boke called the example of vertu.

The prologe.

Whan I aduert in my remembraunce
The famous draughtes of poetes eloquent
Whiche theyr myndes dyd well enhaunce
Bokes to contryue that were expedyent
To be remembred without Impedyment
For the profyte of humanyte
This was the custume of antyquyte.
I now symple and moost rude
And naked in depured eloquence
For dulnes rethoryke doth exclude
Wherfore in makynge I lake intellygence
Also consyderynge my grete neglygence
It fereth me sore for to endyte
But at auenture I wyll now wryte.
As very blynde in the poetys art
For I therof can no thynge skyll
Wherfore I lay it all a part
But somwhat accordynge to my wyll
I wyll now wryte for to fulfyll
Saynt Powles wordes and true sentement
All that is wryten is to oure document
O prudent Gower in langage pure
Without corrupcyon moost facundyous
O noble Chauser euer moost sure
Of frutfull sentence ryght delycyous
O vertuous Lydgat moche sentencyous
Unto you all I do me excuse
Though I your connynge do now vse
Explicit prologus.

Capitulum Primsi.
In Septembre in fallynge of the lefe
Whan phebus made his declynacyon
And all the whete gadred was in the shefe
By radyaunt hete and operacyon
Whan the vyrgyn had full domynacyon
And Dyane entred was one degre
Into the sygne of Gemyne
Whan the golden sterres clere were splendent
In the firmament puryfyed clere as crystall
By imperyall course without incombrement
As Iuppyter and Mars that be celestyall
With Saturne and Mercury that wer supernall
Myxt with venus that was not retrograte
That caused me to be well fortunate
In a slombrynge slepe with slouth opprest

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poem by Stephen Hawes
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The Gentlemen of Dickens

The gentlemen of Dickens
Were mostly very poor,
And innocent of grammar,
And of parentage obscure;
But rich or poor or thriving,
Of high or lowly birth,
The gentlemen of Dickens
Were the grandest on the earth.

The gentlemen of Dickens,
They wore no fancy names—
Like Reginald or Percy
Fitzgerald or FitzJames;
But names for fools to laugh at,
That sound like hob-nailed boots,
Like Newman Noggs and Knubbles,
Toodles and Mr Toots.

They’d little save their kindness,
Their honesty and truth;
They mostly came embarrassed,
And stammering and uncouth;
But the gentlemen of Dickens,
Their women and their girls,
Could speak their minds if need be
To ladies and to earls.

But one who wore a title
A lesson, too, could teach:
Lord Feenix—Cousin Feenix
Of wandering legs and speech.
O he might teach a lesson
A gentleman could give,
Where he stands by his “lovely
And accomplished relative”.

The gentlemen of Dickens
Were gamblers now and then
(And looked upon the ladies,
No doubt, like other men);
And some of them were drunkards,
It cannot be denied;
But one washed all their sins away
When Sidney Carton died.

The gentlemen of Dickens
Are round us here to-day,
For their self-sacrificing

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Was It Worth It?

(tennant/lowe)
--------------------
Well I dont know why I was dreaming about you
But I do know that I was dancing without you
Then you smiled, and I was lost
You fall in love, why count the cost?
All I gave to you
All you made me do
I react when I hear people ask
Was it worth it?
Yes its worth living for
Was it worth it?
Yes its worth giving more
If Id had my way this would have happened much sooner
But until that day it was only a rumour
All at once you changed my life
And led me in to paradise
Where I had to do
What I wanted to
I react when I hear people ask
Was it worth it?
Yes its worth living for
Was it worth it?
Yes its worth giving more
I reserve the right to live
My life this way, and I dont give
A damn when I hear people say
Ill pay the price that others pay
cause its worth it
Yes its worth living for
cause its worth it
Yes its worth living for
All I gave to you
All you made me do
I react when I hear people ask
Was it worth it?
Yes its worth living for
Was it worth it?
Yes its worth giving more
And I reserve (what? )
The right to live (where? )
My life this way (how? )
I couldnt give
A damn when I (what? )
Hear people say (who? )
Ill pay the price
That others pay
cause its worth it
Yes its worth living for
cause its worth it

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song performed by Pet Shop Boys
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With Rose In Hand

Prayer is worth more than a rose
in my hand where love grows
for God and all he knows
The rose has a thorn
which Jesus felt on the crown he had worn.
the rose is red as the blood from his head
when he was crucifed before we were born.

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poem by Meg Harrison
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With Dickens

In Windsor Terrace, number four,
I’ve taken my abode—
A little crescent from the street,
A bight from City Road;
And, hard up and in exile, I
To many fancies yield;
For it was here Micawber lived
And David Copperfield.

A bed, a table, and a chair,
A bottle and a cup.
The landlord’s waiting even now
For something to turn up.
The landlady is spiritless—
They both seem tired of life;
They cannot fight the battle like
Micawber and his wife.

But in the little open space
That lies back from the street,
The same old ancient, shabby clerk
Is sitting on a seat.
The same sad characters go by,
The ragged children play—
And things have very little changed
Since Dickens passed away.

Some seek religion in their grief,
And some for friendship yearn;
Some fly to liquor for relief,
But I to Dickens turn.
I find him ever fresh and new,
His lesson ever plain;
And every line that Dickens wrote
I’ve read and read again.

The tavern’s just across the ‘wye,’
And frowsy women there
Are gossiping and drinking gin,
And twisting up their hair.
And grubby girls go past at times,
And furtive gentry lurk—
I don’t think anyone has died
Since Dickens did his work.

There’s Jingle, Tigg, and Chevy Slyme,
And Weevle—whom you will;
And hard-up virtue proudly slinks
Into the pawnshop still.
Go east a bit from City Road,

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poem by Henry Lawson
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A Fable For Critics

Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.'

Now, Daphne-before she was happily treeified-
Over all other blossoms the lily had deified,
And when she expected the god on a visit
('Twas before he had made his intentions explicit),
Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care,
To look as if artlessly twined in her hair,
Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses,
Like the day breaking through, the long night of her tresses;
So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible,
Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-table
(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable,
Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Cristabel),-
He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it,
As I shall at the--, when they cut up my book in it.

Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning,
I've got back at last to my story's beginning:
Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress,
As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,

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poem by James Russell Lowell
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Ice Burns

Let the ice burn upon my skin.
Oh how I need to feel it yet again.
Yeah get inside my head.
Twist and turn me from the outside in.
You don't have to manipulate me baby.
I'm more then willing.
In the heart you think your stealing.

Maybe that's what I wanted, with the pain you tried to deliver.
Sorry but you lost a friend.
I warned you from the start.
Before we went any farther.
Attachments, have to be numbed.

Let the ice burn upon my skin.
Oh how I need to feel it yet again.
Yeah get inside my head.
Twist and turn me from the outside in.
You don't have to manipulate me baby.
I'm more then willing.
In the heart you think your stealing.

But what is it you really think, your feeling.
With tears in your eyes you say goodbye.
You met the white knight.
And now you meet the black knight.
I warned you that we shouldn't go that way but you do not listen.
I can't be a friend to someone who so easily can rip some ones heart out.

Let the ice burn upon my skin.
Oh how I need to feel it yet again.
Yeah get inside my head.
Twist and turn me from the outside in.
You don't have to manipulate me baby.
I'm more then willing.
In the heart you think your stealing.

What is done is done.
So I had to walk away.
Pretending it was okay.
Accepting my own self inflicted wounds.
No tears in my eyes, but still it aches.
So I have to be cold.
This has grown old.

Let the ice burn upon my skin.
Oh how I need to feel it yet again.
Yeah get inside my head.
Twist and turn me from the outside in.
You don't have to manipulate me baby.

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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A Victorian Superstar

A literary genius was born this day
Charles John Huffam Dickens was he
two hundred years ago in 1812
he wrote great classics like Nicholas Nickleby.
Writing by candlelight using quill and ink
he created stories that will never end
great characters like Oliver Twist and Scrooge
and novels such as Little Dorrit and Our Mutual Friend.
On his shoulder perched Grip his pet Raven
at his feet his dog Timber Doodle would sit
as Dickens wrote for hours and hours
about the exploits of Edwin Drood and Martin Chuzzlewit.
If he was alive today he'd be bigger than Elvis
then again he was way ahead of his time
living in the harsh Victorian era
he would write about corruption, poverty, and crime.
He liked to give his characters wacky names
inspired by people on the streets and in the pub
like Jerry Cruncher, Mr Fang, Horatio Fizkin,
Toby Crackit, Mrs Spittletoes, and Gabriel Grub.
So happy birthday Mr Dickens and many thanks
for your great books and characters full of fun
these novels are still being enjoyed today
so long live A Christmas Carol and Dombey and Son.

Charles Dickens born 7th of February 1812.

poem by Kevin Halls
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The Candidate

Ye idler things, that soothed my hours of care,
Where would ye wander, triflers, tell me where?
As maids neglected, do ye fondly dote,
On the tair type, or the embroider'd coat;
Detest my modest shelf, and long to fly
Where princely Popes and mighty Miltons lie?
Taught but to sing, and that in simple style,
Of Lycia's lip, and Musidora's smile; -
Go then! and taste a yet unfelt distress,
The fear that guards the captivating press;
Whose maddening region should ye once explore,
No refuge yields my tongueless mansion more.
But thus ye'll grieve, Ambition's plumage stript,
'Ah, would to Heaven, we'd died in manuscript!'
Your unsoil'd page each yawning wit shall flee,
- For few will read, and none admire like me. -
Its place, where spiders silent bards enrobe,
Squeezed betwixt Cibber's Odes and Blackmore's Job;
Where froth and mud, that varnish and deform,
Feed the lean critic and the fattening worm;
Then sent disgraced--the unpaid printer's bane -
To mad Moorfields, or sober Chancery Lane,
On dirty stalls I see your hopes expire,
Vex'd by the grin of your unheeded sire,
Who half reluctant has his care resign'd,
Like a teased parent, and is rashly kind.
Yet rush not all, but let some scout go forth,
View the strange land, and tell us of its worth;
And should he there barbarian usage meet,
The patriot scrap shall warn us to retreat.
And thou, the first of thy eccentric race,
A forward imp, go, search the dangerous place,
Where Fame's eternal blossoms tempt each bard,
Though dragon-wits there keep eternal guard;
Hope not unhurt the golden spoil to seize,
The Muses yield, as the Hesperides;
Who bribes the guardian, all his labour's done,
For every maid is willing to be won.
Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand,
And beg our passage through the fairy land:
Beg more--to search for sweets each blooming field,
And crop the blossoms woods and valleys yield,
To snatch the tints that beam on Fancy's bow;
And feel the fires on Genius' wings that glow;
Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop,
Soothe without fear, and without trembling, hope.

TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW.

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poem by George Crabbe
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The Rosciad

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

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

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poem by Charles Churchill
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An Essay on Criticism

Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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poem by Alexander Pope
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Say Something

I'm over here
Looking at you
You're over there
Watching me too
Both painting pictures of
Of how we'll kiss and hug
So what we gonna do
(So what ya gonna do? What ya gonna do)
Tell me why we're standing here
The moment's passion's all so clear
You've got my mind blown
And baby, I'm ready to go
But uh
If it's worth your while
Say something, say something
If it's worth your while
Say something good to me
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey
If it's worth your while
Do something good to me
(Let's make it)
Hot as you can stand it
Something like volcanic
You know it seems organic
Just like the stars and planets
Yeah, we are
So what you gonna do
(So what ya gonna do? What ya gonna do)
Tell me why we're still in here
There's nothing for us to fear
I could tell with my eyes closed
Now baby, I'm ready to go
But uh
If it's worth your while
Say something, say something
If it's worth your while
Say something good to me
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey
If it's worth your while
Do something good to me
If it's worth your while
Say something, say something
If it's worth your while
Say something good to me, baby
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey
If it's worth your while
Do something good to me

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song performed by Mariah Carey
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Say Somethin'

I'm over here
Looking at you
You're over there
Watching me too
Both painting pictures of
Of how we'll kiss and hug
So what we gonna do?
(So what ya gonna do? What ya gonna do?)
Tell me why we're standing here
The moment's passion's all so clear
You've got my mind blown
And baby, I'm ready to go
But uhh
If it's worth your while
Say something, say something
If it's worth your while
Say something good to me
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey
If it's worth your while
Do something good to me
(Let's make it)
Hot as you can stand it
Something like volcanic
You know it seems organic
Just like the stars and planets
Yeah, we are
So what you gonna do?
(So what ya gonna do? What ya gonna do?)
Tell me why we're still in here
There's nothing for us to fear
I could tell with my eyes closed
Now baby, I'm ready to go
But uhh
If it's worth your while
Say something, say something
If it's worth your while
Say something good to me
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey
If it's worth your while
Do something good to me.
If it's worth your while
Say something, say something
If it's worth your while
Say something good to me, baby
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey
If it's worth your while
Do something good to me.

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song performed by Mariah Carey
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The Apology

ADDRESSED TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS.

Tristitiam et Metus.--HORACE.

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

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poem by Charles Churchill
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Was It All Worth It

Words and music by queen
What is there left for me to do in this life
Did I achieve what I had set in my sights
Am I a happy man or is this sinking sand
Was it all worth it was it all worth it
Yeah now hear my story let me tell you about it
We bought a drum kit blew my own trumpet
Played the circuit thought we were perfect
Was it all worth it
Giving all my heart and soul and staying up all night
Was it all worth it
Living breathing rocknroll a godforsaken life
Was it all worth it was it all worth it all these years
Put down our money without counting the cost
It didnt matter if we won if we lost
Yes we were vicious yes we could kill
Yes we were hungry yes we were brill
We served a purpose like a bloody circus
We were so dandy we love you madly
Was it all worth it
Living breathing rocknroll this godforsaken life
Was it all worth it was it all worth it
When the hurly burlys done
We went to bali saw God and dali
So mystic surrealistic
Was it all worth it yeah yeah
Giving all my heart and soul staying up all night
Was it all worth it
Living breathing rocknroll this never ending fight
Was it all worth it was it all worth it
Yes it was a worthwhile experience
It was worth it

song performed by Queen
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True, But Little Known Facts

True, but little known facts

Our eyes are always the same size from birth
But our nose and our ears ne’er stop growing
Some facts to know, have very great worth
And others are not worth knowing

“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog”
is another one you might not know yet
This saying might leave you a bit agog
Since it uses every letter of the alphabet

Babies are born without kneecaps
They go through a most curious stage
Where those patellas don’t start to show up
Until the child reaches 2 to 6 years of age

If you’re an average American
Who endures Americas traffic-caused strife
The time that’s spent waiting at red lights
Is six months out of your life

If the population of China walked by you in single file
The line would never end because of the rate of birth
Yet some in that line would have to dally a while
To make all that giving birth to have worth

Great authors have quirks of little known publicity
Great authors keep us laughing and weeping
Charles Dickens had such an eccentricity
Charles always faced to the north while sleeping

Ancient Egyptians usually died by the age of thirty
And it wasn’t from booze or careless sex
They fashioned bed pillows of stone from the quarry
And shortened their lives by placing them under their necks

A curious fact from the world of flying
Airlines saved thousands by going cheapass
Took one olive out, and I swear I’m not lying
From each salad served in first class

poem by David Whalen
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Stealing Rosemary

If you need me
Ill be here
On my knees
On my knees
In the neighbors garden
Where the light is growing long
Stealing rosemary for you, my love
Its the tiny lies I tell
For you to please
You to please
Early in the morning
When the light is growing strong
Stealing rosemary for you, my love
Im stealing rosemary
Flowers crushing on my skin
Tuscan blue
All for you
Caught in rain and running
Home to you
Im coming home
Stealing rosemary for you, my love
Im stealing rosemary for you, my love
Stealing rosemary

song performed by Bangles
Added by Lucian Velea
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Time crimes

She drove as I fiddled with the radio.
I was stealing looks at her,
young, fresh, clean.
and oh my god her cleavage was hypnotizing.
Her eyes had the same sorrow as mine.
The wounded,
they know each other when they see each other
instinctively.
Like 2 sick junkies passing each other on the street.
They can just TELL.
You can see the emptiness where something or someone use to be.

Spending time with her was like stealing from death.
It was time taken out of time.
She, young and beautiful,
Once she held my corpse and said
'We are the same, you and I'.
I laughed,
A harsh,
mean, laugh that said
'You're right, we are. But that's none of your business'.

She sat on the grass
legs out stretched,
I would lie my head on her thighs.
She looked down at me and sweetly said
'Do you love me a little? '
A line from a film I had intrduced her to.
I answered with:
'What time is it? '

It was all time out of time.
Time stolen from the jaws of death
The death that nibbles away the hours,
the minutes,
the seconds of our lives so slowly we rarely even notice.
Laying there,
in the grass,
in the park,
we were co-conspiritors
stealing time from time
stealing it from death itself.
Stealing time from each other.

Such a fine line,
it occurs to me as I write this
between 'stealing' and 'wasting' sometimes.

-----30----------

poem by Brevet Wilson
Added by Poetry Lover
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Bishop Blougram's Apology

No more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk.
A final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith!
We ought to have our Abbey back, you see.
It's different, preaching in basilicas,
And doing duty in some masterpiece
Like this of brother Pugin's, bless his heart!
I doubt if they're half baked, those chalk rosettes,
Ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere;
It's just like breathing in a lime-kiln: eh?
These hot long ceremonies of our church
Cost us a little—oh, they pay the price,
You take me—amply pay it! Now, we'll talk.

So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs.
No deprecation—nay, I beg you, sir!
Beside 't is our engagement: don't you know,
I promised, if you'd watch a dinner out,
We'd see truth dawn together?—truth that peeps
Over the glasses' edge when dinner's done,
And body gets its sop and holds its noise
And leaves soul free a little. Now's the time:
Truth's break of day! You do despise me then.
And if I say, "despise me"—never fear!
1 know you do not in a certain sense—
Not in my arm-chair, for example: here,
I well imagine you respect my place
(Status, entourage, worldly circumstance)
Quite to its value—very much indeed:
—Are up to the protesting eyes of you
In pride at being seated here for once—
You'll turn it to such capital account!
When somebody, through years and years to come,
Hints of the bishop—names me—that's enough:
"Blougram? I knew him"—(into it you slide)
"Dined with him once, a Corpus Christi Day,
All alone, we two; he's a clever man:
And after dinner—why, the wine you know—
Oh, there was wine, and good!—what with the wine . . .
'Faith, we began upon all sorts of talk!
He's no bad fellow, Blougram; he had seen
Something of mine he relished, some review:
He's quite above their humbug in his heart,
Half-said as much, indeed—the thing's his trade.
I warrant, Blougram's sceptical at times:
How otherwise? I liked him, I confess!"
Che che, my dear sir, as we say at Rome,
Don't you protest now! It's fair give and take;
You have had your turn and spoken your home-truths:
The hand's mine now, and here you follow suit.

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Womans Worth

You could buy me diamonds , you could buy me pearls
Take me on a cruise around the world
Baby you know Im worth it
Dinner lit by candles, run my bubble bath
Make love tenderly to last and last
Baby you know Im worth it
Wanna please wanna keep wanna treat your woman right
Not just told but to show she is worth your time
You will lose if you choose to refuse to put her first
She will if she cant find a man who knows her worth, mhmn
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint afraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
If you treat me fairly Ill give you all my goods
Treat you like a real woman should
Baby I know your worth it
If you never play me , promise not to bluff
Ill hold it down when it gets ruff
Baby I know your worth it
She rolls the mile makes you smile all the while being true
Dont take for granted the passion that she has for you
You will lose if you choose to refuse to put her first
She will if she cant find a man who knows her worth. oh
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint afraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
No need to read between the lines, spell it out for you
Just hear this song cuz you cant go wrong when you value
A woman,woman,woman, a womans worth
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint fraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint fraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
Mhmn mhmn mhmn mhmn mhmn mhmn

song performed by Alicia Keys
Added by Lucian Velea
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