Guys And Girls
Guys,
And...
Their girls,
Together they seem better.
Guys,
And...
Their girls,
Always on their good behavior.
When there are no player haters.
New daters wish to play it safe!
Guys and girls.
They want to start out with clean slates.
Guys and girls.
When separated they nitpick.
Guys and girls
With a focus on their differences...
And accepted blemishes get dissed.
To bring division with a split.
Guys,
And...
Their girls,
Together they seem better.
Guys,
And...
Their girls,
Always on their good behavior.
When there are no player haters.
Since these haters love to hear...
Who broke up to gossip in ears near.
Guys and girls,
When separated they nitpick.
Guys and girls
With a focus on their differences...
And accepted blemishes get dissed.
To bring division with a split.
And player haters love to hear,
Who broke up to gossip...
In ears near.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
Haters
you say your boyfriends sweet and kind
but you still got your eyes on mine
your best friend's got her eyes on your
it all goes on behind closed doors
not the haters, just the hating
talkin bout us exterminating
broken promises and treaties
different life forms different species
haters
haters
haters
they dont belong anywhere
id like to see them disappear
what a waste
what a drag
haters
traitors to the human race
your one of those haters
you want my friends,you want my clothes
why dont you look in my eyes
feelin angry but ya dont know why
of envy greed and jealously
your spinning a web thats hard to see
HATERS
Haters
they dont belong anywhere
id like to see them disapear
what a waste
what a drag
haters
traitors to the human race
your one of those haters
and when your nice its just a pose
keep your lies out of my reality
your the queen of super-fic-ial-ity
the things you do should be a crime
you build up walls no one can climb
as if you think that words dont hurt
you look so clean but you spread your dirt
because you wish you were someone else
dont spit on me and shame your self
it all goes on behind close doors
and when your nice its just a pose
your one of those haters
traitors to the human race
haters
what a drag
id like to see them disappear
they dont belong anywhere
haters
[...] Read more
song performed by Hilary Duff
Added by Lucian Velea
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Don't Only Focus On The Money
When you go for the money,
You'll be selling your soul.
And when one goes for just the money,
The heart turns cold.
So don't focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't only focus on the money,
Don't.
Bling is nice but there's more to life.
Don't focus on the money,
Don't.
Open your mind with bright wide eyes,
To take a ride that will excite you.
With a view to greater heights.
So...
Don't focus on the money,
Don't.
No don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
When you go for the money,
You'll be selling your soul.
Don't focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't let your heart grow old and cold.
Don't focus on the money,
Don't.
So...
Don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
No don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
So...
Don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
No don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't only focus on the money,
Don't.
No don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
So you just don't focus on the money,
Don't.
So you just don't focus on the money,
Don't.
No don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi
Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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VII. Pompilia
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.
All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.
Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Soccer–Passion Song
Soccer–Passion Song
Soccer in the evening;
Soccer in the morning;
Soccer in spring and fall.
Soccer in the raining;
Soccer in the snowing;
Soccer in winter and summer.
Soccer in between my feet,
where I walk;
Soccer in my heart and mind,
how I live;
Soccer my love and life.
Soccer I wake up and play;
Soccer I hold it to sleep;
Soccer my work and rest.
Soccer I sing a new song;
Soccer I dance the magic steps;
Soccer my tears and joy.
Soccer my Mom buys it for me to play;
Soccer my Dad brings me to the game;
Soccer my dear Love watches me to score.
Soccer I dribble and shoot;
Soccer I pass and fall;
Soccer my glory and downfall.
Soccer I strike to attack;
Soccer I tackle to defend;
Soccer my struggle and survival.
Soccer I receive the flags and the whistles;
Soccer I get the yellow and red card;
Soccer my moves and stop.
Soccer I meet my friends;
Soccer I make my enemies;
Soccer my conflict and peace.
Soccer I play and watch;
Soccer I watch but cannot play;
Soccer my dream and reality.
Soccer I learn the rights;
Soccer I confess the fouls;
[...] Read more
poem by Laijon Liu
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Lies About Tall Guys
Just seems like it’s that way to me
Taller guys seem to get executive jobs
Shorter guys work mostly as clerks
Taller guys never seem to be slobs
Shorter guys always seem to be jerks
Taller guys seem to get all of the action
Shorter guys seem to be quite invisible
Taller guys always seem to deserve satisfaction
Shorter guys are lonely and miserable
Just seems like it’s that way to me
Taller guys just seem born to play sports
Shorter guys kinda seem to like tennis
Taller guys certainly look better in shorts
Shorter guys look like Dennis the Menace
Taller guys are usually at the top of their class
Shorter guys seem to fail quite a lot
Taller guys always seem to kick ass
Shorter guys want to, but simply cannot
sure seems like it’s that way to me
Taller guys get better grades and such
Shorter guys seem to barely scrape by
Taller guys seem to do better, pretty much
Shorter guys always wonder why
Taller guys seem to have eyes like a hawk
Shorter guys seem to wear glasses a lot
Taller guys cover more ground when they walk
Shorter guys, to keep up, have to trot
Sure seems like it’s that way to me
Taller guys and their friends look like N.B.A players
Shorter guys look more like cheerleaders
Taller guys seem to look like dragon slayers
Shorter guys look a lot more like bleeders
[...] Read more
poem by David Whalen
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Put Yourself On a Diet of Love
Put yourself on a diet of love.
And recognize the meaning of forgiveness.
To strengthen and not weaken.
Put yourself on a diet of love.
And recognize the meaning of forgiveness.
Through the week and over the weekend...
No matter who may think you're freaking!
Put yourself on a diet of love.
And recognize the meaning of forgiveness.
Recognize the benefit,
Of a happiness exisiting.
Put yourself on a diet of love.
And recognize the meaning of forgiveness.
Only you can testify of Sunlight on the horizon.
Put yourself on a diet of love.
And recognize the meaning of forgiveness.
To strengthen and not weaken.
And declare your peace of mind,
Has come to satisfy your needs.
Put yourself on a diet of love.
And recognize the meaning of forgiveness.
You will find a peace of mind,
Has no time to search for enemies.
Put yourself on a diet of love.
Get rid of nitpick nibbling.
Put yourself on a diet of love.
Get rid of nitpick nibbling.
You will find a peace of mind,
Has no time to search for enemies.
So...
Put yourself on a diet of love.
Get rid of nitpick nibbling.
Put yourself on a diet of love.
Get rid of nitpick nibbling.
Put yourself on a diet of love.
Through the week and over the weekend...
To strengthen and not weaken,
Your needs.
You will find a peace of mind,
Has no time to search for enemies.
So...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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:
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Released From The Academy Of Acne
Pimple free and cleared of blemishes.
Pimple free and cleared of blemishes.
Pimple free.
They're pimple free.
Pimple free and cleared of blemishes.
Pimple free and cleared of blemishes.
Pimple free.
They're pimple free.
And released from the academy of acne.
Teenagers now texting their pictures onto facebook.
And pimple free.
They're pimple free.
Teenagers now texting their pictures onto facebook.
And pimple free.
They're pimple free.
These are priorities of our young people.
Cleared of blemishes to download to save.
These are priorities of our young people.
Physically attached and that's the rage.
And released from the academy of acne.
These are priorities of our young people.
Cleared of blemishes to download to save.
These are priorities of our young people.
Physically attached and that's the rage.
Pimple free and cleared of blemishes.
Pimple free and cleared of blemishes.
Pimple free.
They're pimple free.
Pimple free and cleared of blemishes.
Pimple free and cleared of blemishes.
Pimple free.
They're pimple free.
And released from the academy of acne.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Focus Maintained
Gain!
All I have is love to give,
And gain!
I'm on a fast track to stay,
And to gain.
Nothing in my life...
Remains the same,
With my focus maintained!
And gain!
All I have is love to give,
And gain!
I'm on a fast track to stay,
And to gain.
Nothing in my life...
Remains the same,
With my focus maintained!
I've got to reach,
With my focus maintained.
And,
I've got to keep...
My focus maintained.
And,
I've got to seek...
With my focus maintained,
And prepared I am to change...
Keeping focus maintained.
Gain!
All I have is love to give,
And gain!
I'm on a fast track to stay,
And to gain.
Nothing in my life...
Remains the same,
With my focus maintained!
I've got to reach,
With my focus maintained.
And,
I've got to keep...
My focus maintained.
And,
I've got to seek...
With my focus maintained,
And prepared I am to change...
Keeping focus maintained.
I'm teased a lot!
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Focus
focus
focus on god
focus on freedom
focus on forgiveness
focus on sweet speech
focus on treasures
focus on humility
focus on commitment
focus on mind
focus on success
focus on health
focus on healthy transformation
focus on goodness
focus on laughter
focus on fun
focus on angel
focus on sweetness
focus on wealth
focus
poem by Johnny Walks
Added by Poetry Lover
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Ahh, Let's Get Ill
I'm the Ladies Love, legend in leather
Long and lean, and I don't wear pleather
Last of the red hot lovin MC's
Lookin for a little, that's my theory
It goes quick like lightning, too exciting
Lover of ladies, don't allow biting
Level-headed leader, toy boy feeder
Good love life and a rhyme biter beater
Looking, learning, the one you're liking
Listen and you will love what I'm writing
Ladies love, long, hard and lean
And now you know what L.L. means
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Come on now
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Everybody
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Everybody
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Lightning in the sky, L.L. don't lie
I can hold a larger load than those other little guys
My literature is the land's highest law
The man of the brand, one you look out for
I'm loose like the lace in your brand new sneaker
Release the bass in your face like a large Vega speaker
Li-li-lis-listen to my rhyme
Here to satisfy the listeners who stood on line
Bought tickets to see me kick it and wasn't late
The love every little bit of the cuts he creates
First not last, leader of the class, see
From London, Long Beach, and down to Tallahassee
Ladies are pleased, I'm not wearin Lee's
The Kangol is mine, the godfather is E
I bust your lip, my level won't slip
Clockin crazy dollars on the L.L. tip
Come on!
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Come on
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Everybody
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Everybody
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[...] Read more
song performed by LL Cool J
Added by Lucian Velea
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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
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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They Live In Division
People of ignorance take no time to learn,
But rush to judgement to incite a fighting done...
Dawn after dawn and after many midnights.
They live in division.
People.
People of ignorance initiate hate.
With a wasting of time to find themselves,
Replaced.
By the acts of Mother Nature.
And the reality of this no one claims is faked.
Then people in this condition expect overnight,
Their self-centered appetites...
To be restored as they would like.
Even when the winds have broken tree limbs.
They live in division.
Even when God wants division to end,
They live in division.
People...
To even ignore every message sent,
They live in division.
People...
Stuck in ruts like nuts cracked up,
They live in division.
People...
Even when the winds have broken tree limbs.
They live in division.
People of ignorance initiate hate.
With a wasting of time to find themselves,
Replaced.
By the acts of Mother Nature.
And the reality of this no one claims is faked.
But...
Even when the winds have broken tree limbs.
They live in division.
People...
To even ignore every message sent,
They live in division.
People...
Stuck in ruts like nuts cracked up,
They live in division.
People...
Stuck in ruts like nuts cracked up,
They live in division.
People...
They live in division.
People...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Keep It Focused
Focus,
You may never have a chance to start again.
Focus,
There's no promises to end what just begins.
Focus on the 'here' and 'now'.
Tomorrow is not here to borrow.
Don't be dragging baggage,
From a past.
Focus,
You may never have a chance to start again.
Focus,
There's no promises to end what just begins.
Focus on the 'here' and 'now'.
Tomorrow is not here to borrow.
Focus and participate.
Today do not procrastinate.
Focus and participate.
Today do not procrastinate.
Even yesterday,
May be too late.
Don't be dragging baggage,
From your past!
Keep it focused,
On the things you do...
Knowing what it is pursued.
Focus,
On the things you do...
Knowing what it is pursued.
Focus!
Just keep your focus.
Focus,
You may never have a chance to start again.
Focus,
There's no promises to end what just begins.
Focus on the 'here' and 'now'.
Tomorrow is not here to borrow.
Focus!
Just keep your focus.
Focus.
Keep it focused.
And don't get caught up dragging,
Lugging baggage from your past.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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IV. Tertium Quid
True, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she's not dead yet, she's as good as stretched
Symmetrical beside the other two;
Though he's not judged yet, he's the same as judged,
So do the facts abound and superabound:
And nothing hinders that we lift the case
Out of the shade into the shine, allow
Qualified persons to pronounce at last,
Nay, edge in an authoritative word
Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools
Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.
"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test
"The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike
"I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"
Law's a machine from which, to please the mob,
Truth the divinity must needs descend
And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!
Hammer into their noddles who was who
And what was what. I tell the simpletons
"Could law be competent to such a feat
"'T were done already: what begins next week
"Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain
"Whereof the first was forged three years ago
"When law addressed herself to set wrong right,
"And proved so slow in taking the first step
"That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,
"On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,
"Retarded sentence, till this deed of death
"Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat
"Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?
"'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!
"'Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."
Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.
To hear the rabble and brabble, you'd call the case
Fused and confused past human finding out.
One calls the square round, t' other the round square—
And pardonably in that first surprise
O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:
But now we've used our eyes to the violent hue
Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?
It makes a man despair of history,
Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!
Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away
With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—
One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli
And Spreti,—that's the husband's ultimate hope
Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,
Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!
Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here
Would settle the matter as sufficiently
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Tower Beyond Tragedy
I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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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!
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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Ghost - Book IV
Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;
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poem by Charles Churchill
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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)
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