The English, the plain English, of the politest address of a gentleman to a lady is, I am now, dear Madam, your humble servant: Pray be so good as to let me be your Lord and Master.
quote by Samuel Richardson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Helas Madam
Helas madam cel que ie me tant
soffre que soie voutre humble seruant
voutre vumble seruant ie ray a tousiours
e tant que ie viueray altre naimeray que vous.
Alas, madam, who I love so much,
Allow me to be your humble servant:
Your humble servant I will always remain,
And as long as I live, no other will I love.
poem by Henry VIII King of England
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
yes, what if God does not speak english at all?
you were not born yesterday
and probably heard it before
that if your God does not speak english
then he must not be God
of course, something arrogant
hangs in the air
of this effortless superiority that
'englishers'
'english-plongplangs'
clai m, which, of course, we
always oppose and dub
as prettry dumb silly
but anyhow, yes, we are asked again
what if?
what if, this God, does not really speak English?
well, of course, he is still God
and he must not have considered the english language
that important
and i agree, even if i speak it,
i still have this language
of my soul,
albeit, in english, for you,
who does not speak my own language,
yes, of course, for you to perhaps
understand,
but i like it though, this thought
that God does not speak
the english language, lest, he may sound
so englishly, oh well,
arrogant.....
dear God
do you really...not speak english?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A New John Bull
A tall, slight, English gentleman,
With an eyeglass to his eye;
He mostly says “Good-Bai” to you,
When he means to say “Good-bye”;
He shakes hands like a ladies’ man,
For all the world to see—
But they know, in Corners of the World.
No ladies’ man is he.
A tall, slight English gentleman,
Who hates to soil his hands;
He takes his mother’s drawing-room
To the most outlandish lands;
And when, through Hells we dream not of,
His battery prevails,
He cleans the grime of gunpowder
And blue blood from his nails.
He’s what our blokes in Egypt call
“A decent kinder cove.”
And if the Pyramids should fall?
He’d merely say “Bai Jove!”
And if the stones should block his path
For a twelve-month, or a day,
He’d call on Sergeant Whatsisname
To clear those things away!
A quiet English gentleman,
Who dots the Empire’s rim,
Where sweating sons of ebony
Would go to Hell for him.
And if he chances to get “winged,”
Or smashed up rather worse,
He’s quite apologetic to
The doctor and the nurse.
A silent English gentleman—
Though sometimes he says “Haw.”
But if a baboon in its cage
Appealed to British Law
And Justice, to be understood,
He’d listen all polite,
And do his very best to set
The monkey grievance right.
A thoroughbred whose ancestry
Goes back to ages dim;
Yet no one on his wide estates
Need fear to speak to him.
Although he never showed a sign
Of aught save sympathy,
He was the only gentleman
That shamed the cad in me.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Spaniard is a bad servant but a worse master.
The Language That The Poor Wants To Speak
do you speak good English?
do you take pride in it and then use it to impress others
and swindle them
into a belief that they are inferior?
they have feelings too
of humiliation
which even in such a sad state
wish that their humiliation
speak good English still
they always think that English will give them
a good job
a better standing in the society
a flare of fashionable tongue
you make them cry
but still they want to speak that cry in English too
foolish!
but can you blame them?
you who hold that power and might
you who have taken all what they once had
and made them
worse within
themselves
despite which,
they still want to be like you
to speak like you
a god
how sad!
you have never known the language of love
the grammar of generosity
the syntax of sympathy
that language that good English
sometimes has forgotten
to utter
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Though I won the race?
Juror panel refused to offer me the trophy
And they questioned;
'How an Eastern donkey
Joined the English steeplechase? '
Then I said politely;
'Sir/Madam I am your colonial friend
And I have already jumped from your English cradle in my fading dreams! '
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Speak'n Aussie.
I myself like to speak plain,
Sometimes others drive me insane.
They say fine is my pronunciation,
And does not produce castigation.
So I'd like to give good English a plug,
So would ya give-it-go-ya-mug.
I mean to say fair dinkum.
Don't be down don't be glum.
Speak plainly it will suit.
You do not need a new bag of fruit.
English is no trick,
Unless you're away with the pixies.
How we dress is of importance as well,
We must try to square the circle.
Wearing cozzies or your uggies,
Out of place they look real bodgy.
It don't matter if you're a woman or bloke,
Good English ain't no joke.
English is important any place,
In Tassie, Woop Woop, or Bris Vagas.
No matter if you're a Pom, Apple Eater,
Cane Toad or Taswegian or Sandgroper.
You might have an Oxford Scholar,
In your sky Rocket not on your collar.
Your plates of meat may be sore,
But your mud pies we adore.
When we were young and tin lids, ya know,
Our English china plates would get rather aggro.
So English Oz style can make you gobsmack,
Make you crazy or crook if your slack.
So have a chinwag with an Ozzie woman or bloke,
And on our English you will not choke.
R. K. Hart 7/11/2012
Ch 05 On Love And Youth Story 02
It is said that a gentleman possessed a slave of exquisite beauty, whom he regarded with love and affection. He nevertheless said to a friend: ‘Would that this slave of mine, with all the beauty and good qualities he possesses, had not a long and uncivil tongue!’ He replied: ‘Brother, do not expect service, after professing friendship; because when relations between lover and beloved come in, the relations between master and servant are superseded’:
When a master with a fairy-faced slave
Begins to play and to laugh
What wonder if the latter coquets like the master
And the gentleman bears it like a slave?
A slave is to draw water and make bricks.
A pampered slave will strike with the fist.
English is a mixture
English is a mixture
You can see in theatre
English is neither paternal
Nor maternal
No word no grammer
Make english finer
Uniformity english
Make life accomplished.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Irish-English
Having stolen all the goods and gone,
The English are back in Ireland
Seeking the good of man
In folksong of the past.
Irish in acadamia
Have left the country behind
Preferring to live where the air comes in,
Leave the stench to the English mind.
It's neither one thing nor another
But a blend that works the best.
But when it comes to English-Irish
The latter think the opposite's blessed.
Living by the nostrils the Irish whiff the past,
'The English they can have it. By the future we are cast.'
poem by Douglas Scotney
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Be arrogant to stay put.
A passionate servant served his Master,
Attending his needs no less than anyone,
And for him, fought the Eagle in the battle,
But by the Master was overthrown ill,
And was put to the claw of the same Eagle,
Who crept in, to replace the servant.
Where lies the error of judgment?
Squarely upon the ill-fated servant.
A faithful servant to the faithless Master.
Had he been a fraud, the Master might mind.
(M. Karunanithi, the servent, was defeated in the Assembly Election thoroughly by ADMK headed by Jayalalitha.)
27.05.2001, Pmdi.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Samuel Sewall
Samuel Sewall, in a world of wigs,
Flouted opinion in his personal hair;
For foppery he gave not any figs,
But in his right and honor took the air.
Thus in his naked style, though well attired,
He went forth in the city, or paid court
To Madam Winthrop, whom he much admired,
Most godly, but yet liberal with the port.
And all the town admired for two full years
His excellent address, his gifts of fruit,
Her gracious ways and delicate white ears,
And held the course of nature abolute.
But yet she bade him suffer a peruke,
"That One be not distinguished from the All";
Delivered of herself this stern rebuke
Framed in the resonant language of St. Paul.
"Madam," he answered her, "I have a Friend
Furnishes me with hair out of His strength,
And He requires only I attend
Unto His charity and to its length."
And all the town was witness to his trust:
On Monday he walked out with the Widow Gibbs,
A pious lady of charm and notable bust,
Whose heart beat tolerably beneath her ribs.
On Saturday he wrote proposing marriage,
And closed, imploring that she be not cruel,
"Your favorable answer will oblige,
Madam, your humble servant, Samuel Sewall."
poem by Anthony Evan Hecht
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Beginnings
It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late
With long arrears to make good,
When the English began to hate.
They were not easily moved,
They were icy-willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the English began to hate.
Their voices were even and low,
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show,
When the English began to hate.
It was not preached to the crowd,
It was not taught by the State.
No man spoke it aloud,
When the English began to hate.
It was not suddenly bred,
It will not swiftly abate,
Through the chill years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the English began to hate.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Beginning
1914-18
It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late
With long arrears to make good,
When the English began to hate.
They were not easily moved,
They were icy-willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the English began to hate.
Their voices were even and low,
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show,
When the English began to hate.
It was not preached to the crowd,
It was not taught by the State.
No man spoke it aloud,
When the English began to hate.
It was not suddenly bred,
It will not swiftly abate,
Through the chill years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the English began to hate.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Planh For The Young English King
If all the grief and woe and bitterness,
All dolour, ill and every evil chance
That ever came upon this grieving world
Were set together they would seem but light
Against the death of the young English King.
Worth lieth riven and Youth dolorous,
The world overshadowed, soiled and overcast,
Void of all joy and full of ire and sadness.
Grieving and sad and full of bitterness
Are left in teen the liegemen courteous,
The joglars supple and the troubadours.
O'er much hath ta'en Sir Death that deadly warrior
In taking from them the young English King,
Who made the freest hand seem covetous.
'Las! Never was nor will be in this world
The balance for this loss in ire and sadness!
O skilful Death and full of bitterness,
Well mayst thou boast that thou the best chevalier
That any folk e'er had, hast from us taken;
Sith nothing is that unto worth pertaineth
But had its life in the young English King
And better were it, should God grant his pleasure,
That he should live than many a living dastard
That doth but wound the good with ire and sadness.
From this faint world, how full of bitterness
Love takes his way and holds his joy deceitful
Sith no thing is but turneth unto anguish
And each to-day Vails less than yestere'en,
Let each man visage this young English King
That was most valiant 'mid all worthiest men!
Gone is his body fine and amorous,
Whence have we grief, discord and deepest sadness.
Him, whom it pleased for our great bitterness
To come to earth to draw us from misventure,
Who drank of death for our salvacioun,
Him do we pray as to a Lord most righteous
And humble eke, that the young English King
He please to pardon, as true pardon is,
And bid go in with honoured companions
There where there is no grief, nor shall be sadness.
poem by Ezra Pound
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
English Sunset
I want to ride the range
Across those skies of black
I want to see for myself
And see me coming back
And when Ive gone the distance
Ill be making tracks
For an english sunset.
Were on a runaway train
Rolling down the track
And where its taking us to
Who knows where its at
But if we hold together
We can make it back
For an english sunset
We want an english sunset.
I feel the rhythm of the earth
In my soul tonight
May it never fade away
And Ive decided I can live
With humility
And the sad decay
cos thats the english way.
We keep the faith alive
In everything we do
And at the end of the road
We still keep coming through
And though its sad and sorry
What else can we do
Its an english sunset
An english sunset.
I feel the rhythm of the earth
In my soul tonight
May it never fade away
And Ive decided they can wait
For the requiem
We take it day by day
cos thats the english way
I saw the english sunset.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
English Dream
I once had a dream
A feeling inside
A yearning so bad you have to shout it out
Hey kid look at me
You can make it real
You can get it if you want
When I first started out
They shut all the doors
But I laughed at all the doors
And I kicked them down
Heres my energy for you
Step into the light while you still feel young
I look in your eyes
And I reach for your hands
Well Ill do anything
To make you understand
That Im still the seeker
For your english dream
Dont you give up trying
And dont you let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
I look in your eyes
And I reach for your hands
Well Ill do anything
To help you understand
That Im still the seeker
For your english dream
Dont you
Dont you give up trying
And dont you let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Breffne Caoinc
NOT as a woman of the English weeping over a lord of the
English
Do I weep—
A cry that scarcely stirs the heart!
I lament as it is in my blood to lament—
Castle and stronghold are broken,
And the sovereign of the land beside the lake lies dead
Mahon O'Reilly!
In his day the English were broken:
I weep beside Loch Sheelin and the day is long and grey!
poem by Padraic Colum
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
His Apologies
Master, this is Thy Servant. He is rising eight weeks old.
He is mainly Head and Tummy. His legs are uncontrolled.
But Thou hast forgiven his ugliness, and settled him on Thy knee . . .
Art Thou content with Thy Servant? He is
very
comfy with Thee.
Master, behold a Sinner? He hath committed a wrong.
He hath defiled Thy Premises through being kept in too long.
Wherefore his nose has been rubbed in the dirt, and his self-respect has been bruiséd.
Master, pardon Thy Sinner, and see he is properly looséd.
Master - again Thy Sinner! This that was once Thy Shoe,
He hath found and taken and carried aside, as fitting matter to chew.
Now there is neither blacking nor tongue, and the Housemaid has us in tow.
Master, remember Thy Servant is young, and tell her to let him go!
Master, extol Thy Servant! He hath met a most Worthy Foe!
There has been fighting all over the Shop - and into the Shop also!
Till cruel umbrellas parted the strife (or I might have been choking him yet).
But Thy Servant has had the Time of his Life - and now shall we call on the vet?
Master, behold Thy Servant! Strange children came to play,
And because they fought to caress him, Thy Servant wentedst away.
But now that the Little Beasts have gone, he has returned to see
(Brushed - with his Sunday collar on) what they left over from tea.
Master, pity Thy Servant! He is deaf and three parts blind,
He cannot catch Thy Commandments. He cannot read Thy Mind.
Oh, leave him not in his loneliness; nor make him that kitten’s scorn.
He hath had none other God than Thee since the year that he was born!
Lord, look down on Thy Servant! Bad things have come to pass,
There is no heat in the midday sun, nor health in the wayside grass.
His bones are full of an old disease - his torments run and increase.
Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a, quick release!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!