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George Herbert

Be thrifty, but not covetous.

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An eye that burns

I love your eyes,
My eyes?
Yes, your radiant dark eyes,
Like the winter snow
With wooing gaze
In glowing ember.
The one at our first night met
A shudder of diagnostically lust symptom.
Into my jerking spine,
To what the med might refer love burst entanglement
Was not i entrapped in the web of your covetous gazes,
That now at this night under where we cleave
Our souls now bound,
By the wounded branches,
Under ease of thrushes carol.

Your eyes was doused,
A moment beyond your infant measure,
A delusional love symptom,
I to my under skin diagnosed a sentence,
A sickness of lasting illusion,
To what eternity must behold.

I love your eyes,
From contours of raiding streets,
To jasmines of fine fragrance,
Beholding a covetous gaze
Under rippled twilight,
Up-ridding my pane in luscious humor,
With eyes of glowing tremor,
To my bosom deeply before embraced.

Your eyes,
To all endear and behold,
Before the hallows at dawn enroll
Coach me to your sensual session
With your luscious sweep of brow,
That eternity might to your infant rise enclave.
All that our passions now engraved
I would again love your eyes,
If till my dying days still aglow,
With wings of chariot faith enclose
To my pensive state acclaim.
That this night,
My last struggling days avail.

I love your eyes because i love you,
I love you because your eyes is of luminous hue.

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John Dryden

Absalom and Achitophel

In pious times, e'er Priest-craft did begin,
Before Polygamy was made a sin;
When man, on many, multiply'd his kind,
E'r one to one was, cursedly, confind:
When Nature prompted, and no law deny'd
Promiscuous use of Concubine and Bride;
Then, Israel's monarch, after Heaven's own heart,
His vigorous warmth did, variously, impart
To Wives and Slaves; And, wide as his Command,
Scatter'd his Maker's Image through the Land.
Michal, of Royal blood, the Crown did wear,
A Soyl ungratefull to the Tiller's care;
Not so the rest; for several Mothers bore
To Godlike David, several Sons before.
But since like slaves his bed they did ascend,
No True Succession could their seed attend.
Of all this Numerous Progeny was none
So Beautifull, so brave as Absalon:
Whether, inspir'd by some diviner Lust,
His father got him with a greater Gust;
Or that his Conscious destiny made way
By manly beauty to Imperiall sway.
Early in Foreign fields he won Renown,
With Kings and States ally'd to Israel's Crown
In Peace the thoughts of War he could remove,
And seem'd as he were only born for love.
What e'er he did was done with so much ease,
In him alone, 'twas Natural to please.
His motions all accompanied with grace;
And Paradise was open'd in his face.
With secret Joy, indulgent David view'd
His Youthfull Image in his Son renew'd:
To all his wishes Nothing he deny'd,
And made the Charming Annabel his Bride.
What faults he had (for who from faults is free?)
His Father could not, or he would not see.
Some warm excesses, which the Law forbore,
Were constru'd Youth that purg'd by boyling o'r:
And Amnon's Murther, by a specious Name,
Was call'd a Just Revenge for injur'd Fame.
Thus Prais'd, and Lov'd, the Noble Youth remain'd,
While David, undisturb'd, in Sion raign'd.
But Life can never be sincerely blest:
Heaven punishes the bad, and proves the best.
The Jews, a Headstrong, Moody, Murmuring race,
As ever try'd th' extent and stretch of grace;
God's pamper'd people whom, debauch'd with ease,
No King could govern, nor no God could please;
(Gods they had tri'd of every shape and size
That Gods-smiths could produce, or Priests devise.)

[...] Read more

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Courtship of Miles Standish, The

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

[...] Read more

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Courtship of Miles Standish

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

[...] Read more

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The covetous man is ever in want.

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Be charitable before wealth makes thee covetous.

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Francis Bacon

If money be not thy servant, it will be thy master. The covetous man cannot so properly be said to possess wealth, as that may be said to possess him.

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A covetous abbot for one offering loses a hundred.

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A covetous man does nothing that he should till he dies.

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A covetous man serves his riches, not they him.

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A covetous woman deserves a swindling gallant.

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A poor man wants some things, a covetous man all things.

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Covetous men's chests are rich, not they.

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Edward Bulwer-Lytton

The Land of Promise: a Fable

I.

A pilgrim folk, o'er leagues of pathless sand
Long journeying patiently from far away,
Lured by the promise of a fairer land,
Reach'd ere the close of one eventful day
The craggy shore of a capacious stream:
And lo! the Promised Land before them lay
All in a golden sunset, whose last gleam
Reveal'd between the rovers and their rest
No barrier save that river's bridgeless breast.


II.

Each sufferer, sick and footsore from the waste,
Hail'd with reviving hope the blissful sight.
About the river-beach they pitch'd in haste
Their evening tents, and roam'd in dreams all night
The Land of Promise. At the dawn, however,
The signal trumpet sounded, summoning
The tribe to council. For that rock-bound river
Was broad, and deep, and rapid. The first thing
On which their pilgrim parliament decided
Was to preserve intact, to a community
Whose best opinions might be much divided,
The necessary strength of social unity.
And so it ruled that they should all agree
To recognize as final the authority
Of whatsoever plan might chance to be
Adopted by the vote of the majority.


III.

Scarce was this salutary rule laid down,
Ere one brisk leader of the emigration
(Whose dauntless spirit was to all well known)
Sprang forward with a shout of exultation;
And, from the shoulder of the stony shore
Pointing where every gaze instinctive turn'd,
"Brothers," he cried, "procrastinate no more!
The Promised Land, long arduously earn'd,
Before us lies. Why linger, then, the brave?
What need of projects and of plans? To me
Nature hard muscles and a man's heart gave,
Nor need I more to grasp the good I see.
Forward! Who follows? Fate befriends the bold!"
Without a pause he plunged into the wave
That 'twixt the wanderers and their wishes roll'd;

[...] Read more

poem by from Littell's Living Age, Volume 157, Issue 2028Report problemRelated quotes
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Covetous people will never be satisfied while they are alive.

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Every ambitious man is a captive and every covetous one a pauper.

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Expect not a very covetous person to be very honest for a long time. Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in nae ither.

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Six things have no business in the world: a fighting priest, a coward knight, a covetous judge, a stinking barber, a soft-hearted mother, and an itchy baker.

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Spendthrifts are always of necessity greedy and covetous.

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The covetous person is always in want.

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