To E
Let Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me in friendship twined;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combined.
And though unequal is thy fate,
Since title deck'd my higher claims
Yet envy not this gaudy state;
Thine is the pride of modest worth.
Our souls at least congenial meet,
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.
November 1802
Related quotes
To E-
Let Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me in friendship twined;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combined.
And though unequal is thy fate,
Since title deck’d my higher birth!
Yet envy not this gaudy state;
Thine is the pride of modest worth.
Our souls at least congenial meet,
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.
poem by Byron (1802)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Freemasonry
All this trash
Like Dan B. spews,
And engulfs so many wasted hours, is best described by a simple entry in Webster:
'The act or habit of arrogating, or making undue claims in an overbearing manner; that species of pride which consists in exorbitant claims of rank, dignity, estimation, or power, or which exalts the worth or importance of the person to an undue degree; proud contempt of others; lordliness; haughtiness; self-assumption; presumption. Closely related to the act of arrogating.'
It is on the dollar bill.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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The Virtuous Man
Thus fears the man whom virtue, beacon-like,
Hath fix'd upon the hills of eminence;
At him the tempests of mad envy strike,
And rage against his piles of innocence;
But still, the more they wrong him, and the more
They seek to keep his worth from being known,
They daily make it greater than before,
And cause his fame the further to be blown.
When, therefore, no self-doting arrogance,
But virtues cover'd with a modest veil,
Break through obscurity, and thee advance
To place where envy shall thy worth assail,
Discourage not thyself, but stand the shocks
Of wrath and fury. Let them snarl and bite,
Pursue thee with detraction, slander, mocks,
And all the venom'd engines of despight.
Thou art above the malice; and the blaze
Of thy celestial fire shall shine so clear,
That their besotted souls thou shalt amaze,
And make thy splendours to their shame appear.
poem by George Wither
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For a' That and a' That
1 Is there, for honest poverty,
2 That hings his head, an' a' that?
3 The coward slave, we pass him by,
4 We dare be poor for a' that!
5 For a' that, an' a' that,
6 Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
7 The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
8 The man's the gowd for a' that,
9 What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
10 Wear hoddin-gray, an' a' that;
11 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
12 A man's a man for a' that.
13 For a' that, an' a' that,
14 Their tinsel show an' a' that;
15 The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
16 Is king o' men for a' that.
17 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord
18 Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
19 Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
20 He's but a coof for a' that:
21 For a' that, an' a' that,
22 His riband, star, an' a' that,
23 The man o' independent mind,
24 He looks and laughs at a' that.
25 A prince can mak a belted knight,
26 A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
27 But an honest man's aboon his might,
28 Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
29 For a' that, an' a' that,
30 Their dignities, an' a' that,
31 The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
32 Are higher rank than a' that.
33 Then let us pray that come it may,
34 As come it will for a' that,
35 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
36 May bear the gree, an' a' that.
37 For a' that, an' a' that,
38 It's coming yet, for a' that,
39 That man to man, the warld o'er,
40 Shall brothers be for a' that.
poem by Robert Burns
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A Man's a Man for A' That
Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Henry, Written to a Russian Air
How I hail this morn's appearing!
It will thee, my love, restore:
Safety danger past endearing,
Sure we meet to part no more!
Fame is thine, lo! crowds aver it,
And her smile is dear to thee;
But I charge thee, don't prefer it
E'er again to home and me.
Thou, thy country's call obeying,
Hast her battles nobly fought;
And, thy ready zeal repaying,
See, she gives the laurels sought.
But have I no claims, my rover?
Claims as fondly dear to thee?
Yes, O yes! and, wandering over,
Thou wilt rest with love and me.
Ha! methinks, thy glances reading,
From thine eyes my fate I know;
Duty still love's claim impeding,
Thou again must seek the foe.
Of my fears too dread revival!
Yet, with tearful joy I see,
Duty is the only rival
Potent over love and me.
poem by Amelia Opie
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Every existence above a certain rank has its singular points; the higher the rank the more of them. At these points, influences whose physical magnitude is too small to be taken account of by a finite being may produce results of the greatest importance.
quote by James C. Maxwell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rank does not intimidate hardware. Neither does the lack of rank.
quote by Norman Ralph Augustine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Sophronia.
Sophronia, all the World agree,
The Soul of Friendship dwells in Thee:
Let Envy other Gifts dispute,
Since here the Fury must be mute.
Without one vain, one venal View,
The Muse inscribes these Lines to you.
Tho' I thy Favour shall not share,
Thy Worth I'm destin'd to revere;
And in Sophronia must commend
The firm, disinterested Friend:
To Virtue I this Homage pay,
Rewarded, tho' you slight the Lay.
Those who thy Favour once obtain,
Need not sollicit thee again;
Nor ever at Neglect repine:
Their Wishes and their Cares are thine:
Nor at the Grave thy Friendship ends;
But to Posterity descends.
Hail, sacred Friendship! seldom found,
Tho' sought for all the World around:
Say, Blessing of the peaceful Cell!
How cam'st thou in a Court to dwell?
poem by Mary Barber
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You can be a rank insider as well as a rank outsider.
quote by Robert Frost
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life finds its wealth by the claims of the world, and its worth by the claims of love.
aphorism by Rabindranath Tagore from Stray Birds (1916), translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part III: Gods And False Gods: LXXIX
AMOUR OBLIGE
I could forgive you, dearest, all the folly
Your heart has dreamed. Alas, as we grow old,
We need more vigorous cures for melancholy,
A stronger nutriment for hearts grown cold.
We need in face of weakness to be bold.
We need our folly to keep fate at bay.
Oh, we need madness in the manifold
Doubts and despairs which herald our decay.
I could forgive you all and more than all.
Yet, dearest, though for us fate waves his hand
And we accept it as the common lot
To meet no more at this life's festival,
It were unseemly you should take your stand,
Now my heart's citadel is laid in siege,
In open field with those who love me not.
Love has a rank which surely should oblige.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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A Tennyson Fragment
So in the village inn the poet dwelt.
His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch,
His cousin's work, her empty labour, left.
But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung
And lingered all about the broidered flowers.
Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch,
`Smoke plug, mon,' whom he looked at doubtfully.
Then came the grocer saying, `Hae some twist
At tippence,' whom he answered with a qualm.
But when they left him to himself again,
Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room
Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell
Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt
His fancies with the billow-lifted bay
Of Biscay, and the rollings of a ship.
And on that night he made a little song,
And called his song `The Song of Twist and Plug,'
And sang it; scarcely could he make or sing.
`Rank is black plug, though smoked in wind and rain;
And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain;
I know not which is ranker, no, not I.
`Plug, art thou rank? then milder twist must be;
Plug, thou art milder: rank is twist to me.
O twist, if plug be milder, let me buy.
`Rank twist, that seems to make me fade away,
Rank plug, that navvies smoke in loveless clay,
I know not which is ranker, no, not I.
`I fain would purchase flake, if that could be;
I needs must purchase plug, ah, woe is me!
Plug and a cutty, a cutty, let me buy.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Our Love Has Got The Prize
O my Love
My sweet sweet Love
Our long awaited days are over
And our Love has got the prize.
By the Fire and all Divinity
By the rites all sanctioned
Our minds and hearts and souls
Into His inseperable state stationed.
Like two waves
Full of passion
Embrace each to each
And get into a life of sweet proportion.
My heart is thine
Thou heart is mine
In the bond of love and divinity
Our souls are combined
For ever are combined
Upto our living
And even after dying.
poem by Vivek Tiwari
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Sixth Place and Falling
Below children and grand children plus old friends,
My rank in importance continually descends.
Then ahead there's bridge and constant reading,
Which result so sadly in my sixth place seeding.
I find it appalling that I'm in the sixth spot and falling,
Though my greatest concern is where it all will end…
How far down the depths will my position descend?
Now that I'm old, unhealthy and not very attractive,
Will the next level ahead be a person more active?
I don't smoke, can't drink and sex is just a concept.
Maybe sixth place is too high for someone so inept.
At the end no matter how far I sank or my final rank,
Her love made it worthwhile so I'll have her to thank.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Song Written to a Hindoo Air
Ask not, whence springs my ceaseless sadness,
But let me still the secret keep:
Ask not, why thus in restless madness
Pass the long hours once given to sleep:
And strive not thus my looks to read:....
For 't is by certain fate decreed,
The cause that bids me rove forlorn,
If known, would only move thy scorn,
And make with anger's lightnings shine
Those now soft-smiling eyes of thine.
But know, when I no more behold thee,
And to distant scenes remove;
Should e'er a mournful tale be told thee,
Of a youth who died for love,
Who, though unknown to rank and fame,
Dared to admire a high-born dame;
But, still averse to wound her pride,
Sad silence kept, and pined, and died:....
My likeness in that victim see,
And pitying him thou'lt pity me.
poem by Amelia Opie
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A Visitor In The Camp
To Mary Robinson
'WHAT, are you lost, you pretty little lady?
This is no place for such sweet things as you.
Our bodies, rank with sweat, will make you sicken,
And, you'll observe, our lives are rank lives too.'
'Oh no, I am not lost! Oh no, I've come here
(And I have brought my lute, see, in my hand)
To see you, and to sing of all you suffer
To the great World, and make it understand!'
'Well, say! If one of those who'd robbed you thousands,
Dropped you a sixpence in the gutter where
You lay and rotted, would you call her angel,
For all her charming smile and dainty air?'
'Oh no, I come not thus! Oh no, I've come here
With heart indignant, pity like a flame,
To try and help you!' — 'Pretty little lady,
It will be best you go back whence you came.
' ‘Enthusiasms’ we have such little time for!
In our rude camp we drill the whole day long.
When we return from out the serried Battle,
Come, and we'll listen to your pretty song!'
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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Sixth Place and Sliding
Below children and grandchildren plus old friends,
My rank in importance continually descends.
Then ahead there's bridge and constant reading,
Which result so sadly in my sixth place seeding.
I find it appalling that I'm in the sixth spot and falling;
Slipping and sliding at the time of this writing.
Though my greatest concern is where it all will end…
How far down the depths will my position descend?
Now that I'm old, unhealthy and not very attractive,
Will the next level ahead be a person more active?
I don't smoke, can't drink and sex is just a concept.
Maybe sixth place is too high for someone so inept.
At the end no matter how far I sank or my final rank,
Her love made it worthwhile so I'll have her to thank.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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To The Duke Of Dorset
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd,
Exploring every path of Ida's glade;
Whom still affection taught me to defend
And made me less a tyrant than a friend
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command;
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches and the pride of power;
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, nor far beneath the throne.
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade control,
Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,--
And even in simple boyhood 's opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,--
When these declare, ' that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestined to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;'
Believe them not;– they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name.
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear;
For well I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind.
Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
'Tis not enough, with other sons of power
To gleam tile lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot–
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll,
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll,
Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise,
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires play.
One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth.
Another view, not less renown'd for wit;
Alike for Courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distingish'd ish'd from the glittering throng,
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name;
Not heir to titles only, but to fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine:
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hall their native shore,
Receding, slowly through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself thy weal or woe,
With thee non more saain I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice:
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought,
If these – but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,--
Oh! if these wishes arc not breathed in vain,
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.
Hunting or Fishing?
Hunting or fishing – which is better?
That is what I am thinking about!
In business many hunt for customers;
Some men prefer casting net to catch fish!
Even for poets the position is the same
In poetry websites to catch readers!
Some lay wise traps to catch readers!
I use fishing rod with a needle and bait
To catch readers who can understand!
Whether the rank is high or low it is
Immaterial but the true comment is!
Hunting readers to comment and rank
Or fishing readers to comment and rank
Are not really going to enhance one’s status;
For, voluntary comments are indeed valuable!
Poets are jealous to appreciate others’ merit
But some poets raise the status of others!
So, letters to such poets increase sans end!
This is the status of poetry websites now!
So, it is left to you to hunt or fish or lay trap
As you wish to catch readers for rank, etc.!
poem by Ramesh T A
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