Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343052" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>With Mine Own Petard</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time was the local poets sang their songs<br>Beneath their breath in terror of the thongs<br>I snapped about their shins. Though mild the stroke<br>Bards, like the conies, are 'a feeble folk,'<br>Fearing all noises but the one they make<br>Themselves-at which all other mortals quake.<br>Now from their cracked and disobedient throats,<br>Like rats from sewers scampering, their notes<br>Pour forth to move, where'er the season serves,<br>If not our legs to dance, at least our nerves;<br>As once a ram's-horn solo maddened all<br>The sober-minded stones in Jerich's wall.<br>A year's exemption from the critic's curse<br>Mends the bard's courage but impairs his verse.<br>Thus poolside frogs, when croaking in the night,<br>Are frayed to silence by a meteor's flight,<br>Or by the sudden plashing of a stone<br>From some adjacent cottage garden thrown,<br>But straight renew the song with double din<br>Whene'er the light goes out or man goes in.<br>Shall I with arms unbraced (my casque unlatched,<br>My falchion pawned, my buckler, too, attached)<br>Resume the cuishes and the broad cuirass,<br>Accomplishing my body all in brass,<br>And arm in battle royal to oppose<br>A village poet singing through the nose,<br>Or strolling troubadour his lyre who strums<br>With clumsy hand whose fingers all are thumbs?<br>No, let them rhyme; I fought them once before<br>And stilled their songs-but, Satan! how they swore!<br>Cuffed them upon the mouth whene'er their throats<br>They cleared for action with their sweetest notes;<br>Twisted their ears (they'd oft tormented mine)<br>And damned them roundly all along the line;<br>Clubbed the whole crew from the Parnassian slopes,<br>A wreck of broken heads and broken hopes!<br>What gained I so? I feathered every curse<br>Launched at the village bards with lilting verse.<br>The town approved and christened me (to show its<br>High admiration) Chief of Local Poets!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ambrose+Bierce">Ambrose Bierce</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343052" data-title="With Mine Own Petard de Ambrose Bierce" data-description="Time was the local poets sang their songs
Beneath their breath in terror of the thongs
I snapped about their shins. Though mild the stroke
Bards, like the conies, are 'a feeble folk,'
Fearing all noises but the one they make
Themselves-at which al..."></div>
</div>
</div>