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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506409" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Up at a Villa--Down in the City</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,<br> The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;<br> Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!<br> There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast;<br> While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull<br> Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull,<br> Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!<br> --I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But the city, oh the city--the square with the houses! Why?<br> They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye!<br> Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry;<br> You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by;<br> Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high;<br> And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights,<br> 'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights:<br> You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze,<br> And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once;<br> In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns.<br> 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well,<br> The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell<br> Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash!<br> In the shade it sings and springs: in the shine such foambows flash<br> On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash<br> Round the lady atop in her conch--fifty gazers do not abash,<br> Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger,<br> Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger.<br> Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle,<br> Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.<br> Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill,<br> And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill.<br> Enough of the seasons,--I spare you the months of the fever and chill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin:<br> No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in:<br> You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin.<br> By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth;<br> Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.<br> At the post-office such a scene-picture--the new play, piping hot!<br> And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes,<br> And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's!<br> Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and so,<br> Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome and Cicero,<br> &quot;And moreover,&quot; (the sonnet goes rhyming,) &quot;the skirts of Saint Paul has reached,<br> Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached.&quot;<br> Noon strikes,--here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart<br> With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart!<br> Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife.<br> No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.<br> They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate<br> It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city!<br> Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity!<br> Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals,<br> And the penitents dressed in white shirts a-holding the yellow candles;<br> One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles.<br> And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals:<br> Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife;<br> Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Browning">Robert Browning</a><div class=q>
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<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=506409" data-title="Up at a Villa--Down in the City de Robert Browning" data-description="Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,
 The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;
 Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!

 Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!
 Ther..."></div>
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