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Larry Hagman

I did successfully kick tobacco at the age of 34. I smoked for like 20 years, from 14 to 34.

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The Chronicles of A New Day part 1 5 years from now

5 years from now forgotten
maybe after so much time
out of the cage out of the pen
no longer trapped by word and rhyme
childish infatuations all but forgotten all gone away
no more saying this day how fey!
only today
here we... w...
at this time i ask how
could i get to this here and now where memories fade
where debts are paid
love songs forgotten away with the wind
now blowing blowing forgotten feeling blowing farther
is this my future?

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When Did the Age of Bigoted Prudery Begin?

There was a lot of begetting to be gotten,
In those biblical days of yore.
With sexual entanglements experienced.
And less monitoring of it.

Today there is a fascination,
With what is between whose legs.
And the size and freshness of it.

As those who stride with self righteousness...
Seem to pinch a little tighter,
Those corks held snuggly in stiffened butts.
With the hopes that their praises to the Lord...
Will pierce through the heavens.
And those who are no longer virgins...
Will find themselves forgiven for being gratified.
And enjoying the act of sex!

'When did the Age of Bigoted Prudery begin? '

During the time those selected for loans
Were declared to have good credit.
And 'The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas'
Became quite a successful adventure for some.

And I might add,
In the 'Bible Belt'!
Where it is known...
They wet and wear their sheets!

'Isn't that hypocritical?
To both hate and degrade themselves,
By the obviousness of their own actions?

No!
You remember Casper the Ghost?
Cute and mischievous.
A little 'freaky' but amusing as well.
Had good intentions.
But no one understood why he just couldn't stay,
On the other side!
And leave well enough alone.

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The Age Of Chivalry

Back in the days of old
when knights were bold
who with a sword or lance
in armour sought romance.

It was the age of chivalry
long ago in man’s history
when to fight for a righteous cause
one did gain considerable applause.

It was mainly for show, love and glory
they deemed themselves being worthy
to capture the heart of some fair maiden
which was the most desired prize laden.

Oh, they would strike heavy blows
on all of their opponents and foes
in a one to one combat defying death
as crowds watched with abated breath.

Yes, it was far back in those days of yore
that courage and strength came to the fore
where there was this life and death struggle;
such issues at hand the knights would juggle.

And in fighting for their country, faith and king
noble impressions on people’s minds would ring
that even through the ages are held in high esteem
those knights in shinning armour do now all seem.

There are many legends based on their heroic exploits
a legacy of tales which have been told with much adroit
highlighting aspects of human wisdom related to virtue and vice
and the lessons to be learnt are those of goodness and sacrifice.

History usually repeats itself time and again
as it often happens a situation comes when
we’re asked to do something for a just cause
and acting with chivalry we shouldn’t pause.

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The age alone does not contribute

Wisdom would grow with age, like wrinkles
Only when the stuff was good in the first place..
Wine would improve with the age, it’s true,
Provided the grapes were good in the first place.
17.11.2007

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The Age Old Terrapin

Wordless Calliope- what are you,
Standing there
As a blue monument: what do you mean
After so much tragedy;
The Roman Candles are only shooting forth
A jealous blue,
And another night is ruined into the world:
The monuments float unstructured:
The witches curse the baseball diamonds,
And the schoolyards aren’t even fully formed:
The air-conditioning escapes outdoors
And all of the football teams lose, lose:
And I lye weeping underneath the school bus
Even as it rains and the age old terrapin
Eats my muse-
My muse.

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Life Is Uncertain/ I Am Already At The Age

“LIFE IS UNCERTAIN/ I AM ALREADY AT THE AGE..

“Life is uncertain
I am already at the age
That it my work ability may end any moment
If I have work to do
I should do it as soon as I can
With all my heart and soul and might”.

I wasted today
And I will have no time tomorrow
And I waste time all the time now
I am old
And I should do better.

But I do not work
And so almost all my work will be left
Half – done uncorrected- worse than it could be.

Is there anything in the world
That can move me to a bit of courage?

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The Age of Aquarius

**Wouldn't you like to ride,
In my beautiful balloon?
Wouldn't you like to glide,
In my beautiful balloon? **

The keeping of ideals,
Has depleted rapidly...
To be freed,
Of materialistic assets...
No longer as appealing.

The Age of Aquarius,
Engulfs us in an arresting trust.
Moving with a thrust...
That demolishes myths.
We are now within a truthfulness,
Crushing through those deceits once seducing.
Introducing a fresh new dawning!
**And floating among the stars together,
You and I.
'Cause we can fly.**


**Lyrics from the Jimmy Webb composition,
'Up Up and Away' as sung by the 5th Dimension.**

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0269 The age of iron - Kali Yuga

The Rajah's court, it's said, sat dumb with grief,
their sorrow that of those who truly love,
on February the eighteenth, and full moon,
three thousand, one-O-two years ere Christ's birth;

for wise men had foretold that ruthless span:
the golden age, the silver, and the bronze
had passed. The age of iron now began:
the last and worst of ages, where the gods
were to be lost to mind: Virtue herself
from four sound legs, reduced to merely one;
and all the ordered grace of human wealth
to be abused and squandered until gone...

The court sought mercy. Then this answer came:
'Give, and give, in full. Repeat God's name.'

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The Age Of Love (Live)

Yes!
Rough bad on the case
I wanna hit your face
Music that's the law
we're gonna rock the place
Come on we start it right
so posse hold on tight
Now that's the score
so can you see the light
Turn it up, yeah
Come on, we start it right
so posse hold on tight
Now thats's the score
so can you see the light
chorus:
The age of love
Come on - the age of love
Yes, turn up that blaster
I wanna see you faster
Moving to the bass
that's gonna hit your face
Talking bout love and peace
that's what we need
Unity instead of fight
come on and reunite
Talking bout love and peace
that's what we need
Unity instead of fight
come on and reunite
chorus:
The age of love
Come on - yeah
The age of love
Rough and ready
Come on - aaaahh!
The age of love

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The Age Of Love

Yess!!
Rough bad on the case, I wanna hit your face.
Music thats the law, were gonna rock the place.
Come on! we start it right, so posse hold on tight.
Now thats the score, so can you see the light? yeah!
Turn it up! yeah!
Come on we start it right, so posse hold on tight.
Now thats the score, so can you see the light?
The age of love.
Come on!
The age of love.
Yes, turn up that blaster, I wanna see you faster.
Movin to the bass thats gonna hit your face.
Talking bout love and peace that? s what we need.
Unity instead of fight. come on and reunite!
Let it roll!
Talking bout love and peace thats what we need.
Unity instead of fight. come on and reunite!
The age of love
Come on!! yeeeeah!
The age of love!!
Rough and ready!!
Come on!!
Aaaaahh!
The age of love!!
Thank you!

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In The Age Of Celebrity Worship

In the age of celebrity worship our own small gods we do create
And mortals like ourselves in the flesh we worship and celebrate
People who are good at golf and tennis and various other games of ball
We give them their big egos though pride can come before a fall
We look up to wealthy people and those of privileged birth and give to politicians power
And in the presence of the dictator they've created a Nation's people cower
We give big egos to strangers people we may never meet
At the table that they dine at we will never have a seat
Yet the unsung heroes of our town we choose for to ignore
He is just an ordinary fellow the bloke who lives next door
But he helps his wheelchair bound neighbour without asking for reward or pay
And for someone in need in the neighbourhood he does a good deed every day
But we see him as an ordinary bloke and his praises are unsung
Many of our heroes are quite dashing and competitive and young.

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The Age

My beast, my age, who will try
to look you in the eye,
and weld the vertebrae
of century to century,
with blood? Creating blood
pours out of mortal things:
only the parasitic shudder,
when the new world sings.

As long as it still has life,
the creature lifts its bone,
and, along the secret line
of the spine, waves foam.
Once more life’s crown,
like a lamb, is sacrificed,
cartilage under the knife -
the age of the new-born.

To free life from jail,
and begin a new absolute,
the mass of knotted days
must be linked by means of a flute.
With human anguish
the age rocks the wave’s mass,
and the golden measure’s hissed
by a viper in the grass.

And new buds will swell, intact,
the green shoots engage,
but your spine is cracked
my beautiful, pitiful, age.
And grimacing dumbly, you writhe,
look back, feebly, with cruel jaws,
a creature, once supple and lithe,
at the tracks left by your paws.

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Ours is the Age

Ours is the age of awakening, ours is the rage of their making.
Ours is the knowledge of all to cease, listen upon a Spring time breeze,
A new world is forming, a new heaven out of a cold and usurous storm.
What reason is there to be found in drawing circles in the ground they ask?
How will it last the coming, the frothing, the bubbling of the storm?
How will it last the coming of Winter and her frosts, will not the circle be lost?

They understand not the act in itself, the memory to which our dance is attached.
They understand not the reactions they make leave their souls upon the shelf,
Un-animated, un-knowing of the world beyond the horizons shadow.

Take not the burden of another’s soul upon your own till you are whole
For only then do you contain the strength to help them through the void.
Know however that we are never to walk away from the ability to help
For it is only through helping and healing with our words and actions
That we ever ascertain any dream we may wish to accomplish.

20th May 2006

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Herman Melville

The Age Of The Antonines

While faith forecasts millennial years
Spite Europe's embattled lines,
Back to the Past one glance be cast--
The Age of the Antonines!
O summit of fate, O zenith of time
When a pagan gentleman reigned,
And the olive was nailed to the inn of the
world
Nor the peace of the just was feigned.
A halcyon Age, afar it shines,
Solstice of Man and the Antonines.

Hymns to the nations' friendly gods
Went up from the fellowly shrines,
No demagogue beat the pulpit-drum
In the Age of the Antonines!
The sting was not dreamed to be taken from
death,
No Paradise pledged or sought,
But they reasoned of fate at the flowing feast,
Nor stifled the fluent thought,
We sham, we shuffle while faith declines--
They were frank in the Age of the Antonines.

Orders and ranks they kept degree,
Few felt how the parvenu pines,
No law-maker took the lawless one's fee
In the Age of the Antonines!
Under law made will the world reposed
And the ruler's right confessed,
For the heavens elected the Emperor then,
The foremost of men the best.
Ah, might we read in America's signs
The Age restored of the Antonines.

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Spirit Of The Age

Hate, lust, soul, rage
Youre so full of hate, youre so full of lust
Youre so full of soul, youre so full of rage
Spirit of the age
Here comes the voodoo king, here comes a powerful man
My face on every frontpage, my plans for everyone
I reason your existence, that is what I want to be
Your whore and your messiah if you believe in me
Im not a true creator, Im just a cheap reflection
Im the impersonator of anyones conception
But if you read my lips just on your own behalf
Ill be a remedy not just an epitaph
Youre so full of hate, you need a vacation
So full of lust, you need liberation
You need damnation, you need salvation
Youre so full of hate
Spirit of the age
Here comes the new religion of everything you are
My sword is your conviction, my voice your media
Im here to justify you, thats what I want to do
I dont believe in visions but I believe in you
Here comes the voodoo king, here comes a powerful man
My face on every frontpage, my plans for everyone
Im here to satisfy you, thats what I want to be
Your whore and your messiah if you believe in me
Youre so full of crime, you wipe out a nation
So full of sex, youre a sensation
You need damnation, you need salvation
Your so full of fear
Youre so full of hate, you need a vacation
So full of lust, you need liberation
You need damnation, you need salvation
Youre so full of hate
Spirit of the age....

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The age of innocence

Re-collect
Re-ligio
A high tide of returning faith
For the age of innocence

Le fin de toutes les ciecles
Weltschmertz too shallow for those
Who went abysses too high
Who went insanity too nigh

Go up
Super-modern stuck in
Heideggerian states of minds
Without even knowing that
New health be named after you
Carry the name the peace of glory
You sub-modern undercurrent
Talking to its future

Gather together
Powers of the world
Light up little girls’ golden matches
Re-collect little boys lost in no man’s host
Gather together and strike

Dancing light on fragility
Delicate wire walkers
Scar lit star dust dancers
Spinning ashes spread
Spread beyond the waters
You sub-modern undercurrent
Talking to its future

Re-collect
Memories of Earth risen grown up
In knife edges shortcuts torn apart
Dying a Nietzche strength in
‘they’ll call me a sickness’ testament
Michael Angelo mocking
Bartholomeus’s skin
The Moses horns bone bricked
Into the creation of Earth

Re-collect
Re-ligio
The high tide of returning faith
For the age of innocence

This is an unknown passion
A torment passion tearing to nothing
Torn to nothing brought
Torn out of nothing born
Reborn
Unmasking darkness and light
Un-dividing
A new health may carry its name

To say
To re-collect
Gather together and strike
Light steps of the paths
Stamps in sounds star bathed blessed
Sub-modern last choice manifest

Re-collect
Re-ligio
The high tide of returning faith
For the age of innocence.

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Victor Hugo

The Father’s Curse

[LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act I.]


M. ST. VALLIER (_an aged nobleman, from whom King Francis I.
decoyed his daughter, the famous beauty, Diana of
Poitiers_).

A king should listen when his subjects speak:
'Tis true your mandate led me to the block,
Where pardon came upon me, like a dream;
I blessed you then, unconscious as I was
That a king's mercy, sharper far than death,
To save a father doomed his child to shame;
Yes, without pity for the noble race
Of Poitiers, spotless for a thousand years,
You, Francis of Valois, without one spark
Of love or pity, honor or remorse,
Did on that night (thy couch her virtue's tom,
With cold embraces, foully bring to scorn
My helpless daughter, Dian of Poitiers.
To save her father's life a knight she sought,
Like Bayard, fearless and without reproach.
She found a heartless king, who sold the boon,
Making cold bargain for his child's dishonor.
Oh! monstrous traffic! foully hast thou done!
My blood was thine, and justly, tho' it springs
Amongst the best and noblest names of France;
But to pretend to spare these poor gray locks,
And yet to trample on a weeping woman,
Was basely done; the father was thine own,
But not the daughter!--thou hast overpassed
The right of monarchs!--yet 'tis mercy deemed.
And I perchance am called ungrateful still.
Oh, hadst thou come within my dungeon walls,
I would have sued upon my knees for death,
But mercy for my child, my name, my race,
Which, once polluted, is my race no more.
Rather than insult, death to them and me.
I come not now to ask her back from thee;
Nay, let her love thee with insensate love;
I take back naught that bears the brand of shame.
Keep her! Yet, still, amidst thy festivals,
Until some father's, brother's, husband's hand
('Twill come to pass!) shall rid us of thy yoke,
My pallid face shall ever haunt thee there,
To tell thee, Francis, it was foully done!...

TRIBOULET _(the Court Jester), sneering._ The poor man
raves.

ST. VILLIER. Accursed be ye both!
Oh Sire! 'tis wrong upon the dying lion
To loose thy dog! _(Turns to Triboulet)_
And thou, whoe'er thou art,
That with a fiendish sneer and viper's tongue
Makest my tears a pastime and a sport,
My curse upon thee!--Sire, thy brow doth bear
The gems of France!--on mine, old age doth sit;
Thine decked with jewels, mine with these gray hairs;
We both are Kings, yet bear a different crown;
And should some impious hand upon thy head
Heap wrongs and insult, with thine own strong arm
Thou canst avenge them! _God avenges mine!_
::::
Freedom And The World
Weak is the People--but will grow beyond all other--
Within thy holy arms, thou fruitful victor-mother!
O Liberty, whose conquering flag is never furled--
Thou bearest Him in whom is centred all the World.

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The Age of Reason

Whene'er I read some savage tale
Of punishment devised
By tyrants in an olden day,
When serfs were victimised,
I reverently tell myself:
'Thank God, we're civilised!'

Thank God, those idols, grimmer far
Than gods of wood or stone,
Unthinking Hate and brute Revenge,
With all the seeds they've sown,
Are cast to earth, and Reason sits
With Mercy on the throne.

Calm Reason sits upon the throne
And fashions righteous laws,
And in our blessed Age of Light
It ever bids us pause
And, ere we plan the remedy,
Unearth the Primal Cause.

It seeks not, in a brutish rage,
To flog the witless fool;
The rack, the pillory are gone,
The witches' ducking stool;
And Reason builds no gallows for
Heredity's poor tool.

'Reform lies not in punishment!'
So saith the modern sage.
'No remedy for evil holds
Blind Hate or Savage Rage.
The whipping-post, the darkened cell
Are of a darkre age.'

So Reason saith; so Mercy saith;
And, having said, withdraw.
(O brothers in this Noble Age
That there should be a flaw!)
And to the vacant throne there steps
The thing men call the Law.

The Law devised by kings long-dead
And superstitious priests,
Whose code considered but revenge,
With bloody rites and feasts
The ancient Law, bequeathed by men
Scarce risen from the beasts.

But e'en before such kings and priests
Infested our poor earth,
Long ages ere some bleeding wretch
Excited their loud mirth,
A thing, half man, with crooked brain,
It chanced, was given birth.

And lo! this thing begat him sons,
And their sons sons again.
And on and on, till sturdier
And cleaner grew the strain.
Till in the breed, for many an age,
The taint had dormant lain.

For countless ages it, mayhap,
The fatal taint had missed,
Till, in our day, a babe was born
With some strange mental twist.
A thing for all men's sympathy
A foredoomed atavist.

And that he sinned against our code
And harmed a fellow-man
(Lord knows what Nature is about
To work on such a plan!)
Lo, he is seized on by the Law
And placed beneath the ban!

And what has reason now to say,
Chief of our modern gods?
And Mercy? 'Keep the man apart,
But harm not such poor clods?'
'Nay,' saith the Law, 'we'll truss him up
And scourge his back with rods!'

And so they take the last poor son
Of all that tainted host,
And try to exorcise the taint
There at the whipping-post.
This is the Age of Reason, friends!
It is our proudest boast.


And what of those great men on high
Who said this thing should be?
What of the Law's high officers
Who voiced the brute decree?
Shall such ones not become the mark
For scornful obloquy?

Nay, gentle brothers, blame them not
Blame is the whip of fools
For here again we mark in them
Heredity's poor tools,
The eld rings with their sires' demand,
Calling for ducking stools.

And so, when all is said and done,
We end where we began.
We must leave Nature to proceed
With her age-honored plan.
E'en I who speak may be the son
Of some strange-fashioned man.

Because he had a twisted form
A man of old was slain;
They flog him in our Age of Light
For his poor twisted brain;
And, 'spite my words, the chances are
They'll do the same again.

Still, when I read some savage tale
Of punishment devised
By tyrants of an olden day,
When serfs were victimised,
I feel it in my heart to say
'Thank God, we're civilised.'

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Robert Frost

The Star Splitter

`You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
After the ground is frozen, I should have done
Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
To make fun of my way of doing things,
Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
These forces are obliged to pay respect to?'
So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk
Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And spent the proceeds on a telescope
To satisfy a lifelong curiosity
About our place among the infinities.

`What do you want with one of those blame things?'
I asked him well beforehand. `Don't you get one!'

`Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything
More blameless in the sense of being less
A weapon in our human fight,' he said.
`I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it.'
There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground
And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move,
Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years
Trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And bought the telescope with what it came to.
He had been heard to say by several:
`The best thing that we're put here for's to see;
The strongest thing that's given us to see with's
A telescope. Someone in every town
Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one.
In Littleton it might as well be me.'
After such loose talk it was no surprise
When he did what he did and burned his house down.

Mean laughter went about the town that day
To let him know we weren't the least imposed on,
And he could wait---we'd see to him tomorrow.
But the first thing next morning we reflected
If one by one we counted people out
For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long
To get so we had no one left to live with.
For to be social is to be forgiving.
Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us,
We don't cut off from coming to church suppers,
But what we miss we go to him and ask for.
He promptly gives it back, that is if still
Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of.
It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad
About his telescope. Beyond the age
Of being given one for Christmas gift,
He had to take the best way he knew how
To find himself in one. Well, all we said was
He took a strange thing to be roguish over.
Some sympathy was wasted on the house,
A good old-timer dating back along;
But a house isn't sentient; the house
Didn't feel anything. And if it did,
Why not regard it as a sacrifice,
And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire,
Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction?

Out of a house and so out of a farm
At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn
To earn a living on the Concord railroad,
As under-ticket-agent at a station
Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
Was setting out, up track and down, not plants
As on a farm, but planets, evening stars
That varied in their hue from red to green.

He got a good glass for six hundred dollars.
His new job gave him leisure for stargazing.
Often he bid me come and have a look
Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside,
At a star quaking in the other end.
I recollect a night of broken clouds
And underfoot snow melted down to ice,
And melting further in the wind to mud.
Bradford and I had out the telescope.
We spread our two legs as we spread its three,
Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it,
And standing at our leisure till the day broke,
Said some of the best things we ever said.
That telescope was christened the Star-Splitter,
Because it didn't do a thing but split
A star in two or three, the way you split
A globule of quicksilver in your hand
With one stroke of your finger in the middle.
It's a star-splitter if there ever was one,
And ought to do some good if splitting stars
'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.

We've looked and looked, but after all where are we?
Do we know any better where we are,
And how it stands between the night tonight
And a man with a smoky lantern chimney?
How different from the way it ever stood?

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The Owl And The Sparrow

In elder days, in Saturn's prime,
Ere baldness seized the head of Time,
While truant Jove, in infant pride,
Play'd barefoot on Olympus' side,
Each thing on earth had power to chatter,
And spoke the mother tongue of nature.
Each stock or stone could prate and gabble,
Worse than ten labourers of Babel.
Along the street, perhaps you'd see
A Post disputing with a Tree,
And mid their arguments of weight,
A Goose sit umpire of debate.
Each Dog you met, though speechless now,
Would make his compliments and bow,
And every Swine with congees come,
To know how did all friends at home.
Each Block sublime could make a speech,
In style and eloquence as rich,
And could pronounce it and could pen it,
As well as Chatham in the senate.


Nor prose alone.--In these young times,
Each field was fruitful too in rhymes;
Each feather'd minstrel felt the passion,
And every wind breathed inspiration.
Each Bullfrog croak'd in loud bombastic,
Each Monkey chatter'd Hudibrastic;
Each Cur, endued with yelping nature,
Could outbark Churchill's[2] self in satire;
Each Crow in prophecy delighted,
Each Owl, you saw, was second-sighted,
Each Goose a skilful politician,
Each Ass a gifted met'physician,
Could preach in wrath 'gainst laughing rogues,
Write Halfway-covenant Dialogues,[3]
And wisely judge of all disputes
In commonwealths of men or brutes.


'Twas then, in spring a youthful Sparrow
Felt the keen force of Cupid's arrow:
For Birds, as Æsop's tales avow,
Made love then, just as men do now,
And talk'd of deaths and flames and darts,
And breaking necks and losing hearts;
And chose from all th' aerial kind,
Not then to tribes, like Jews, confined
The story tells, a lovely Thrush
Had smit him from a neigh'bring bush,
Where oft the young coquette would play,
And carol sweet her siren lay:
She thrill'd each feather'd heart with love,
And reign'd the Toast of all the grove.


He felt the pain, but did not dare
Disclose his passion to the fair;
For much he fear'd her conscious pride
Of race, to noble blood allied.
Her grandsire's nest conspicuous stood,
Mid loftiest branches of the wood,
In airy height, that scorn'd to know
Each flitting wing that waved below.
So doubting, on a point so nice
He deem'd it best to take advice.


Hard by there dwelt an aged Owl,
Of all his friends the gravest fowl;
Who from the cares of business free,
Lived, hermit, in a hollow tree;
To solid learning bent his mind,
In trope and syllogism he shined,
'Gainst reigning follies spent his railing;
Too much a Stoic--'twas his failing.


Hither for aid our Sparrow came,
And told his errand and his name,
With panting breath explain'd his case,
Much trembling at the sage's face;
And begg'd his Owlship would declare
If love were worth a wise one's care.


The grave Owl heard the weighty cause,
And humm'd and hah'd at every pause;
Then fix'd his looks in sapient plan,
Stretch'd forth one foot, and thus began.


"My son, my son, of love beware,
And shun the cheat of beauty's snare;
That snare more dreadful to be in,
Than huntsman's net, or horse-hair gin.
"By others' harms learn to be wise,"
As ancient proverbs well advise.
Each villany, that nature breeds,
From females and from love proceeds.
'Tis love disturbs with fell debate
Of man and beast the peaceful state:
Men fill the world with war's alarms,
When female trumpets sound to arms;
The commonwealth of dogs delight
For beauties, as for bones, to fight.
Love hath his tens of thousands slain,
And heap'd with copious death the plain:
Samson, with ass's jaw to aid,
Ne'er peopled thus th'infernal shade.


"Nor this the worst; for he that's dead,
With love no more will vex his head.
'Tis in the rolls of fate above,
That death's a certain cure for love;
A noose can end the cruel smart;
The lover's leap is from a cart.
But oft a living death they bear,
Scorn'd by the proud, capricious fair.
The fair to sense pay no regard,
And beauty is the fop's reward;
They slight the generous hearts' esteem,
And sigh for those, who fly from them.


Just when your wishes would prevail,
Some rival bird with gayer tail,
Who sings his strain with sprightlier note,
And chatters praise with livelier throat,
Shall charm your flutt'ring fair one down,
And leave your choice, to hang or drown.


Ev'n I, my son, have felt the smart;
A Pheasant won my youthful heart.
For her I tuned the doleful lay,[4]
For her I watch'd the night away;
In vain I told my piteous case,
And smooth'd my dignity of face;
In vain I cull'd the studied phrase,
And sought hard words in beauty's praise.
Her, not my charms nor sense could move,
For folly is the food of love.
Each female scorns our serious make,
"Each woman is at heart a rake."[5]
Thus Owls in every age have said,
Since our first parent-owl was made;
Thus Pope and Swift, to prove their sense,
Shall sing, some twenty ages hence;
Then shall a man of little fame,
One ** **** sing the same.

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