Arectyng my syght
Arectyng my syght towarde the zodyake,
The sygnes xii for to beholde a farre,
When Mars retrogradant reuersyd his bak,
Lord of the yere in his orbicular,
Put vp his sworde, for he cowde make no warre,
And whan Lucina plenarly did shyne,
Scorpione ascendynge degrees twyse nyne.
poem by John Skelton
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Inscription In St Cross Near Winchester, To John Newles, On A Brass Near The West Entrance Of The Church
The yere of our Lord m. ccc. l. and two:
Vpon the xi day in the moneth of Febever:
The soul of Jon Newles, the body passid fro:
A brother of this place restyng undir yis stone here:
Born in beame squyer and suant more yan xxx yere:
Unto Harry Beauford bushhop and cardinal:
Whos soules God convey and His Moder dere:
Vnto the blisse of Heven that is eternall. Amen:
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Universal Shyp
Come to, Companyons: ren: tyme it is to rowe:
Our Carake fletis: the se is large and wyde
And depe Inough: a pleasaunt wynde doth blowe.
Prolonge no tyme, our Carake doth you byde,
Our felawes tary for you on every syde.
Hast hyther, I say, ye folys naturall,
Howe oft shall I you unto my Navy call?
Ye have one confort, ye shall nat be alone:
Your company almoste is infynyte;
For nowe alyve ar men but fewe or none
That of my shyp can red hym selfe out quyte.
A fole in felawes hath pleasour and delyte.
Here can none want, for our proclamacion
Extendyth farre: and to many a straunge nacyon.
Both yonge and olde, pore man, and estate:
The folysshe moder: hir doughter by hir syde,
Ren to our Navy, ferynge to come too late.
No maner of degre is in the worlde wyde,
But that for all theyr statelynes and pryde
As many as from the way of wysdome tryp
Shall have a rowme and place within my shyp.
My folysshe felawes therfore I you exort
Hast to our Navy, for tyme it is to rowe:
Nowe must we leve eche sympyll haven and porte,
And sayle to that londe where folys abound and flow;
For whether we aryve at London or Bristowe,
Or any other Haven within this our londe,
We folys ynowe shall fynde alway at honde....
Our frayle bodyes wandreth in care and payne
And lyke to botes troubled with tempest sore
From rocke to rocke cast in this se mundayne,
Before our iyen beholde we ever more
The deth of them that passed are before.
Alas mysfortune us causeth oft to rue
Whan to vayne thoughtis our bodyes we subdue.
We wander in more dout than mortall man can thynke.
And oft by our foly and wylfull neglygence
Our shyp is in great peryll for to synke.
So sore ar we overcharged with offence
We see the daunger before our owne presence
Of straytis, rockis, and bankis of sonde full hye,
Yet we procede to wylfull jeopardye.
We dyvers Monsters within the se beholde
Redy to abuse or to devour mankynde,
As Dolphyns, whallys, and wonders many folde,
And oft the Marmaydes songe dullyth our mynde
That to all goodnes we ar made dull and blynde;
The wolves of these oft do us moche care,
Yet we of them can never well beware....
About we wander in tempest and Tourment;
What place is sure, where Foles may remayne
And fyx theyr dwellynge sure and parmanent?
None certainly: The cause thereof is playne.
We wander in the se for pleasour, bydynge payne,
And though the haven of helth be in our syght
Alas we fle from it with all our myght.
poem by Sebastian Brant
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When Ragyng Loue With Extreme Payne
When ragyng loue with extreme payne
Most cruelly distrains my hart:
When that my teares, as floudes of rayne,
Beare witnes of my wofull smart:
When sighes haue wasted so my breath,
That I lye at the poynte of death:
I call to minde the nauye greate,
That the Grekes brought to Troye towne:
And how the boysteous windes did beate
Their shyps, and rente their sayles adowne,
Till Agamemnons daughters bloode
Appeasde the goddes, that them withstode.
And how that in those ten yeres warre,
Full many a bloudye dede was done,
And many a lord, that came full farre,
There caught his bane (alas) to sone:
And many a good knight ouerronne,
Before the Grekes had Helene wonne.
Then thinke I thus: sithe suche repayre,
So longe time warre of valiant men,
Was all to winne a ladye fayre:
Shall I not learne to suffer then,
And thinke my life well spent to be,
Seruyng a worthier wight than she?
Therfore I neuer will repent,
But paynes contented stil endure.
For like as when, rough winter spent,
The pleasant spring straight draweth in vre:
So after ragyng stormes of care
Joyful at length may be my fare.
poem by Henry Howard
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The Mars Bar
Oh, lord have mercy for the blessed Mars Bar!
I taste the nought and caramel in my mouth,
And it goes so far,
Just that one Mars Bar!
That Mars Bar can ease my troubles,
And leave me at peace,
For chocolate bars are both a blessing and a curse,
I can't choose which is worse,
Oh, heavenly Mars Bar!
And in the shop I look around,
And see other chocolate and candy bars,
Feeling so ravenous and famished,
Sometimes a galaxy bar will do,
But I always come back,
To the faithful Mars Bar!
The naughty ritual of the schoolgirl,
Pressured to diet,
Dreading the day she will be middle aged and fat,
Not to mention a housewife,
But times are changing,
Curvy is in,
For eating never was a sin,
Oh, wonderful Mars Bar!
I am older now,
But remember fondly those trips,
To the corner shop,
Feeling quietly delighted,
At the same time,
Oh, glorious Mars Bar!
poem by Paula Glynn
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A Jest Of Robin Hood
Lyth and lystyn, gentilmen,
All that nowe be here;
Of Litell Johnn, that was the knighes man,
Goode myrth ye shall here.
It was upon a mery day
That yonge men wolde go shete;
Lytell Johnn fet his bowe anone,
And sayde he wolde them mete.
Thre tymes Litell Johnn shet aboute,
And alwey he slet the wande;
The proud sherif of Notingham
By the marks can stande.
The sherif swore a full greate othe:
'By hym that dyede on a tre,
This man is the best arschére
That ever yet sawe I me.
'Say me nowe, wight yonge man,
What is nowe thy name?
In what countre were thou borne,
And where is thy wonynge wane?'
'In Holdernes, sir, I was borne,
I-wys al of my dame;
Men cal me Reynolde Grenlef
Whan I am at home.'
'Sey me, Reynolde Grenelefe,
Wolde thou dwell with me?
And every yere I woll the gyve
Twenty marke to thy fee.'
'I have a maister,' sayde Litell Johnn,
'A curteys knight is he;
May ye lev gete of hym,
The better may it be.'
The sherif gate Litell John
Twelve moneths of the knight;
Therfore he gave him right anone
A gode hors and a wight.
Nowe is Litell John the sherifs man,
God lende vs well to spede!
But alwey thought Lytell John
To quyte hym wele his mede.
'Nowe so God me help,' sayde Litell John,
'And by my true leutye,
I shall be the worst servaunt to hym
That ever yet had he.'
It fell upon a Wednesday
The sherif on huntynge was gone,
And Litel John lay in his bed,
And was foriete at home.
Therfore he was fastinge
Til it was past the none;
'Gode sir stuarde, I pray to the,
Gyve me my dynere,' saide Litell John.
'It is longe for Grenlefe
Fastinge thus for to be;
Therfor I pray the, sir stuarde,
Mi dyner gif me.'
'Shalt thou never ete ne drynke,' saide the stuarde,
'Tyll my lorde be come to towne:'
'I make myn avowe to God,' saide Litell John,
'I had lever to crake thy crowne.'
The boteler was full uncurteys,
There he stode on flore;
He start to the botery
And shet fast the dore.
Lytell Johnn gave the boteler suche a tap
His backe went nere in two;
Though he lived an hundred ier,
The wors shuld he go.
He sporned the dore with his fote;
It went open wel and fyne;
And there he made large lyveray,
Bothe of ale and of wyne.
'Sith ye wol nat dyne,' sayde Litell John,
'I shall gyve you to drinke;
And though ye lyve an hundred wynter,
On Lytel Johnn ye shall thinke.'
Litell John ete, and Litel John drank,
The whil that he wolde;
The sherife had in his kechyn a coke,
A stoute man and a bolde.
'I make myn avowe to God,' saide the coke,
'Thou arte a shrewde hynde
In ani hous for to dwel,
For to aske thus to dyne.'
And there he lent Litell John
God strokis thre;
'I make myn avowe to God,' sayde Lytell John,
'These strokis lyked well me.
'Thou arte a bolde man and hardy,
And so thinketh me;
And or I pas fro this place
Assayed better shalt thou be.'
Lytell Johnn drew a ful gode sworde,
The coke toke another in hande;
They thought no thynge for to fle,
But stifly for to stande.
There they faught sore togedere
Two myl way and well more;
Myght neyther other harme done,
The mountnaunce of an owre.
'I make myn avowe to God,' sayde Litell Johnn,
'And by my true lewté,
Thou art one of the best sworde-men
That ever yit sawe I me.
'Cowdest thou shote as well in a bowe,
To gren wode thou shuldest with me,
And two times in the yere thy clothinge
Chaunged shuld be;
'And every yere of Robyn Hode
Twenty merke to thy fe:'
'Put up thy swerde,' saide the coke,
'And felowes woll we be.'
Thanne he fet to Lytell Johnn
The nowmbles of a do,
Gode brede, and full gode wyne,
They ete and drank theretoo.
And when they had dronkyn well,
Theyre trouths togeder they plight
That they wolde be with Robyn
That ylk same nyght.
They dyd them to the tresoure-hows,
As fast as they myght gone;
The lokks, that were of full gode stele,
They brake them everichone.
They toke away the silver vessell,
And all that thei might get;
Pecis, masars, ne sponis,
Wolde thei not forget.
Also they toke the gode pens,
Thre hundred pounde and more,
And did them streyte to Robyn Hode,
Under the gren wode hore.
'God the save, my dere mayster,
And Criste the save and se!'
And thanne sayde Robyn to Litel Johnn,
Welcome myght thou be.
'Also be that fayre yeman
Thou bryngest there with the;
What tydyngs fro Notyngham?
Lytill Johnn, tell thou me.'
'Well the gretith the proud sheryf,
And sendeth the here by me
His coke and his silver vessell,
And thre hundred pounde and thre.'
'I make myne avowe to God,' sayde Robyn,
'And to the Trenyté,
It was never by his gode wyll
This gode is come to me.'
Lytyll Johnn there hym bethought
On a shrewde wyle;
Fyve myle in the forest he ran,
Hym happed all his wyll.
Than he met the proud sheref,
Huntynge with houndes and horne;
Lytell Johnn coude of curtesye,
And knelyd hym beforne.
'God the save, my der mayster,
And Criste the save and se!'
'Reynolde Grenlefe,' sayde the shryef,
'Where hast thou nowe be?'
'I have be in this forest;
A fayre syght can I se;
It was one of the fayrest syghtes
That ever yet sawe I me.
'Yonder I sawe a ryght fayre harte,
His coloure is of grene;
Seven score of dere upon a herde
Be with hym all bydene.
'Their tynds are so sharpe, maister,
Of sexty, and well mo,
That I durst not shote for drede,
Lest they wolde me slo.'
'I make myn avowe to God,' sayde the shyref,
'That syght wolde I fayne se:'
'Buske you thyderwarde, mi der mayster,
Anone, and wende with me.'
The sherif rode, and Litell Johnn
Of fote he was full smerte,
And whane they came before Robyn,
'Lo, sir, here is the mayster-herte.'
Still stode the proud sherief,
A sory man was he;
'Wo the worthe, Raynolde Grenlefe,
Thou hast betrayed nowe me.'
'I make myn avowe to God,' sayde Litell Johnn,
'Mayster, ye be to blame;
I was mysserved of my dynere
Whan I was with you at home.'
Sone he was to souper sette,
And served well with silver white,
And whan the sherif sawe his vessell,
For sorowe he myght nat ete.
'Make glad chere,' sayde Robyn Hode,
'Sherif, for charité,
And for the love of Litill Johnn
Thy lyfe I graunt to the.'
Whan they had souped well,
The day was al gone;
Robyn commaunded Litell Johnn
To drawe of his hosen and his shone;
His kirtell and his cote of pie,
That was fured well and fine,
And toke hym a grene mantel,
To lap his body therin.
Robyn commaundyd his wight yonge men,
Under the gren-wode tree,
They shulde lye in that same sute,
That the sherif myght them see.
All nyght lay the proud sherif
In his breche and in his schert;
No wonder it was, in gren wode,
Though his syds gan to smerte.
'Makeglade chere,' sayde Robyn Hode,
'Sheref, for charité;
For this is our ordre i-wys,
Under the gren-wode tree.'
'This is harder order,' sayde the sherief,
'Than any ankir or frere;
For all the golde in mery Englonde
I wolde nat longe dwell her.'
'All this twelve monthes,' sayde Robin,
'Thou shalt dwell with me;
I shall the tech, proud sherif,
An outlaw for to be.'
'Or I be here another nyght,' sayde the sherif,
'Robyn, nowe pray I the,
Smyte of mijn hede rather to-morowe,
And I forgyve it the.
'Lat me go,' than sayde the sherif.
'For saynt charité,
And I woll be the best frende
That ever yet had ye.'
'Thou shalt swere me an othe,' sayde Robyn,
'On my bright bronde;
Shalt thou never awayte me scathe,
By water ne by lande.
'And if thou fynde any of my men,
By nyght or by day,
Upon thyn oth thou shalt swere
To helpe them that thou may.'
Nowe hathe the sherif sworne his othe,
And home he began to gone;
He was as full of gren wode
As ever was hepe of stone.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Book of Phillip Sparrow
Pla ce bo,
Who is there, who?
Di le xi,
Dame Margery;
Fa, re, my, my,
Wherfore and why, why?
For the sowle of Philip Sparowe,
That was late slayn at Carowe,
Among the Nones Blake,
For that swete soules sake,
And for all sparowes soules,
Set in our bederolles,
Pater noster qui,
With an Ave Mari,
And with the corner of a Crede,
The more shalbe your mede.
Whan I remembre agayn
How mi Philyp was slayn,
Never halfe the payne
Was betwene you twayne,
Pyramus and Thesbe,
As than befell to me:
I wept and I wayled,
The tearys downe hayled;
But nothinge it avayled
To call Phylyp agayne,
Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne.
Gib, I saye, our cat,
Worrowyd her on that
Which I loved best:
It can not be exprest
My sorowfull hevynesse,
But all without redresse;
For within that stounde,
Halfe slumbrynge, in a swounde
I fell downe to the grounde.
Unneth I kest myne eyes
Towarde the cloudy skyes:
But whan I dyd beholde
My sparow dead and colde,
No creatuer but that wolde
Have rewed upon me,
To behold and se
What hevynesse dyd me pange;
Wherewith my handes I wrange,
That my senaws cracked,
As though I had ben racked,
So payned and so strayned,
That no lyfe wellnye remayned.
I syghed and I sobbed,
For that I was robbed
Of my sparowes lyfe.
O mayden, wydow, and wyfe,
Of what estate ye be,
Of hye or lowe degre,
Great sorowe than ye myght se,
And lerne to wepe at me!
Such paynes dyd me frete,
That myne hert dyd bete,
My vysage pale and dead,
Wanne, and blewe as lead;
The panges of hatefull death
Wellnye had stopped my breath.
Heu, heu, me,
That I am wo for the!
Ad Dominum, cum tribularer, clamavi:
Of God nothynge els crave I
But Phyllypes soule to kepe
From the marees deepe
Of Acherontes well,
That is a flode of hell;
And from the great Pluto,
The prynce of endles wo;
And from foule Alecto,
With vysage blacke and blo;
And from Medusa, that mare,
That lyke a fende doth stare;
And from Megeras edders,
For rufflynge of Phillips fethers,
And from her fyry sparklynges,
For burnynge of his wynges;
And from the smokes sowre
Of Proserpinas bowre;
And from the dennes darke,
Wher Cerberus doth barke,
Whom Theseus dyd afraye,
Whom Hercules dyd outraye,
As famous poetes say;
From that hell-hounde,
That lyeth in cheynes bounde,
With gastly hedes thre,
To Jupyter pray we
That Phyllyp preserved may be!
Amen, say ye with me!
Do mi nus,
Helpe nowe, swete Jesus!
Levavi oculos meos in montes:
Wolde God I had Zenophontes,
Or Socrates the wyse
To shew me their devyse,
Moderatly to take
This sorrow that I make
For Phylyp Sparowes sake!
So fervently I shake,
I fele my body quake;
So urgently I am brought
Into carefull thought.
Like Andromach, Hectors wyfe,
Was wery of her lyfe,
Whan she had lost her joye,
Noble Hector of Troye;
In lyke maner also
Encreaseth my dedly wo,
For my sparowe is go.
It was so prety a fole,
It wold syt on a stole,
And lerned after my scole
For to kepe his cut,
With, "Phyllyp, kepe your cut!"
It had a velvet cap,
And wold syt upon my lap,
And seke after small wormes,
And somtyme white bred crommes;
And many tymes and ofte
Betwene my brestes softe
It wolde lye and rest;
It was propre and prest.
Somtyme he wolde gaspe
Whan he sawe a waspe;
A fly or a gnat,
He wolde flye at that;
And prytely he wold pant
Whan he saw an ant;
Lord, how he wolde pry
After the butterfly!
Lorde, how he wolde hop
After the gressop!
And whan I sayd, "Phyp! Phyp!"
Than he wold lepe and skyp,
And take me by the lyp.
Alas, it wyll me slo,
That Phillyp is gone me fro!
poem by John Skelton
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I think young writers should get other degrees first, social sciences, arts degrees or even business degrees. What you learn is research skills, a necessity because a lot of writing is about trying to find information.
quote by Irvine Welsh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Freedom words
thanks my lord for all the challenges that make me stronger.
thanks my lord for all the opportunities that take to my destiny.
thanks my lord for all the work that makes me happy.
thanks my lord for all the friends that lift my spirit.
thanks my lord for all the happy moments that sparkle my soul.
thanks my lord for all my family that make me euphoric.
thanks my lord for all the discipline that lead to my success.
thanks my lord for giving the gift of life that I venerate....
poem by Antonio Manjarrez
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A Balade of Complaint
Compleyne ne koude, ne might myn herte never,
My peynes halve, ne what torment I have,
Though that I sholde in your presence ben ever,
Myn hertes lady, as wisly he me save
That Bountee made, and Beautee list to grave
In your persone, and bad hem bothe in-fere
Ever t'awayte, and ay be wher ye were.
As wisly he gye alle my joyes here
As I am youres, and to yow sad and trewe,
And ye, my lyf and cause of my gode chere,
And deeth also, whan ye my peynes newe,
My worldes joye, whom I wol serve and sewe,
Myn heven hool, and al my suffisaunce,
Whom for to serve is set al my plesaunce.
Beseching yow in my most humble wyse
T'accepte in worth this litel pore dyte,
And for my trouthe my servyce not despyse,
Myn observaunce eke have not in despyte,
Ne yit to longe to suffren in this plyte;
I yow beseche, myn hertes lady, here,
Sith I yow serve, and so wil yeer by yere.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Sonnet XV
YE tradefull Merchants that with weary toyle,
do seeke most pretious things to make your gain:
and both the Indias of their treasures spoile,
what needeth you to seeke so farre in vaine?
For loe my loue doth in her selfe containe
all this worlds riches that may farre be found,
if Saphyres, loe her eies be Saphyres plaine,
if Rubies, loe hir lips be Rubies found:
If Pearles, hir teeth be pearles both pure and round;
if Yuorie, her forhead yuory weene;
if Gold, her locks are finest gold on ground;
if siluer, her faire hands are siluer sheene,
But that which fairest is, but few behold,
her mind adornd with vertues manifold.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Travelin Prayer
Hey lord, take a look on around tonight
And find out where my babys gonna be
Hey lord, would ya look out for him tonight
For he is far away from me
Hey lord, would ya look out for him tonight
Make sure that hes gonna be alright
Things gonna be alright with me
Hey lord, would ya look out for him tonight
And make sure all his dreams are sweet
Send down that ya got him on the road
But youll make it softer for his feet
Hey lord, would ya look out for him tonight
Make sure that hes gonna be alright
til hes home and here with me
Hey lord, would ya look out for him tonight
For he is sleeping under the sky
Hey lord, make sure the ground hes sleepin on
Is always warm and dry
Ooo, dont give him too much pain
And keep him away from planes
Cause my baby hates to fly
Hey lord, would ya look out for him tonight
For it gets rough along the way
And if it all sounds strange
Just because I dont know how to pray
Ooo, wont you give him peace of mind
And if you ever find the time
Tell him I miss him everyday
Hey lord, take a look on around tonight
And find out where hes gonna be
Hey lord, would ya look out for him tonight
For he is far away from me
Hey lord, would ya look out for him tonight
Make sure that hes gonna be alright
til hes home and here with me
Here with me
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lovers Prayer
Lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
Lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
Lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
Just wanna be with my love tonight
I dont want no jive artists calling me on the telephone
Dont wanna watch the carson show all alone
I just wanna lay back, take my rest
With the one I loves head resting on my chest
Lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
Lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
Lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
Just wanna be with my love tonight
And I dont want my best friends even coming round
cos if they do I might put em down
Carsons over and the lights way down low
And all I got, I got a heart full of soul
Lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
I said, lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
I said, lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
Just wanna be with my love tonight
And its a lovers prayer, oh yes it is
Takes a little time, takes a little care, yeah, yeah, yeah
And when it gets way on in the midnight hour
I just wanna play my guitar
I just wanna see you smile, touch your face
Be with you in my own place
Lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
I said, lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
Lord, lord, lord, lord, lord
Just wanna be with my love tonight
Just wanna be with my love tonight
Just wanna be with my love tonight
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Testament of John Lydgate
...
Beholde, o man! lyft up thyn eye and see
What mortall peyne I suffre for thi trespace.
With pietous voys I crye and sey to the:
Beholde my woundes, behold my blody face,
Beholde the rebukes that do me so manace,
Beholde my enemyes that do me so despice,
And how that I, to reforme the to grace,
Was like a lambe offred in sacryfice.
...
And geyn thi pryde behold my gret mekenesse;
Geyn thyn envie behold my charité;
Geyn thi leccherye behold my chast clennesse;
Geyn thi covetyse behold my poverté.
Atweene too thevys nayl{.e}d to a tree,
Rayled with reed blood, they lyst me so desguyse,
Behold, O man! all this I did for the,
Meke as a lambe offred in sacryfice.
Behold my love, and gyf me thyn ageyn;
Behold, I deyde thy raunsom for to paye.
Se howe myn herte is open brode and pleyn,
Thy gostly enemyes onely to affraye.
An hardere batayle no man myght assaye,
Of all tryumphes the grettest hye empryse.
Wher-for, O man! no lenger to dismaye,
I gaf for the my blood in sacryfice.
Turne home ageyn, thy synne do forsake.
Behold and se yf ought be left behynde,
How I to mercy am redy the to take.
Gyf me thyn herte and be no more unkynde;
Thy love and myn, togedyr do hem bynde,
And late hem never departe in any wyse.
Whan thou were lost, thy sowle ageyn to fynde,
My blod I offred for the in sacryfice.
Emprente thes thynges in thyn inward thought,
And grave hem depe in thy remembraunce;
Thynke on hem, and forgete hem nowght.
Al this I suffred to do the allegeaunce,
And with my seyntes to yeve the suffisaunce,
In the hevenly court for the I do devyse
A place eternall, a place of all plesaunce;
For which my blood I gaf in sacryfice.
And more my mercy to putte att a preef,
To every synnere that non ne shal it mysse,
Remembre how I gaf mercy to the theef
Which hadde so longe trespaced and doon amys;
Went he not frely with me to paradise?
Have this in mende, how it is my guyse
All repentaunt to bryng hem to my blysse,
For whom my blood I gaf in sacryfice.
Tarye no lenger toward thyn herytage;
Hast on thy weye and be of ryght good chere.
Go eche day onward on thy pylgrymage;
Thynke howe short tyme thou hast abyden here.
Thy place is bygged above the sterres clere,--
Noon erthly palys wrought in so statly wyse.
Kome on, my frend, my brother most entere!
For the I offered my blood in sacryfice!
Amen.
Explicit testamentum Johanis Lydgate.
poem by John Lydgate
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dont Stop Me Now
Words and music by freddie mercury
Tonight Im gonna have myself a real good time
I feel alive and the world turning inside out yeah!
And floating around in ecstasy
So dont stop me now dont stop me
cause Im having a good time having a good time
Im a shooting star leaping through the sky
Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity
Im a racing car passing by like lady godiva
Im gonna go go go
Theres no stopping me
Im burning through the sky yeah!
Two hundred degrees
Thats why they call me mister fahrenheit
Im travling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic man out of you
Dont stop me now Im having such a good time
Im having a ball dont stop me now
If you wanna have a good time just give me a call
Dont stop me now (cause Im havin a good time)
Dont stop me now (yes Im havin a good time)
I dont want to stop at all
Im a rocket ship on my way to mars
On a collision course
I am a satellite Im out of control
I am a sex machine ready to reload
Like an atom bomb about to
Oh oh oh oh oh explode
Im burning through the sky yeah!
Two hundred degrees
Thats why they call me mister fahrenheit
Im travling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic woman of you
Dont stop me dont stop me
Dont stop me hey hey hey!
Dont stop me dont stop me ooh ooh ooh (I like it)
Dont stop me dont stop me
Have a good time good time
Dont stop me dont stop me ah
Im burning through the sky yeah!
Two hundred degrees
Thats why they call me mister fahrenheit
Im travling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic man out of you
Dont stop me now Im having such a good time
Im having a ball dont stop me now
If you wanna have a good time just give me a call
Dont stop me now (cause Im havin a good time)
Dont stop me now (yes Im havin a good time)
I dont want to stop at all
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Willie and Helen
'WHAREFORE sou'd ye talk o' love,
Unless it be to pain us?
Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love
Whan ye say the sea maun twain us?'
'It 's no because my love is light,
Nor for your angry deddy;
It 's a' to buy ye pearlins bright,
An' to busk ye like a leddy.'
'O Willy, I can caird an' spin,
Se ne'er can want for cleedin';
An' gin I hae my Willy's heart,
I hae a' the pearls I'm heedin'.
'Will it be time to praise this cheek
Whan years an' tears has blench'd it?
Will it be time to talk o' love
Whan cauld an' care has quench'd it?'
He's laid ae han' about her waist--
The ither 's held to heaven;
An' his luik was like the luik o' man
Wha's heart in twa is riven.
poem by Hew Ainslie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Wasn't Over You
Girl no matter where I go
I call you after every show
In your voice I hear a funny tone
Somebody's holding you
Now you see me on TV
I thought you'd be proud of me
Somehow things have changed (oh yea)
I wasn't over you (over you)
I was away from you
And now you've left me (oh baby)
When sky's are gray
I wasn't over you (over you)
I was away from you
And now you've blown it all away
When I'm on stage with 98 Degrees
Trying to make a way for you and me
City to city
song performed by by 98 Degrees from 98 Degrees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Paraphrase, By Chaucer
Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken,
Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken;
Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding
Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding.
Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder
For to beare swete company with some oder;
Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth,
But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth;
Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes
That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys;
But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye
When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Chaucerian Paraphrase of Horace
Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken,
Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken;
Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding
Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding;
Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder
For to beare swete company with some oder;
Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth,
But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth;
Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes
That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys;
But all that do with gode men wed full quickylye
When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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More Than Degrees
Mini-jobs and maxi-prices,
You are what you say you are!
But true love knows my name more than Degrees.
You are what you eat and i am what i eat,
But i am like Daniel in the lions den with my mind;
And true love knows my name more than the Degrees around me.
Life to some people is like the wind,
But others wait to see where it blows to;
And like your existing contracts on this earth,
But true love knows my name more than Degrees.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Man From Mars
Since I lost you
I cant get through the day
Without at least one big boo-hoo
The pain wont go away
What am I gonna do?
Man from mars
This time you went too far
I fall apart
Everytime I think of you
Swallowed by the dark
There is no center to my life now
No grace in my heart
Man from mars
This time you went too far
I call and call
The silence is so full of sounds
Youre in them all
I hear you in the water
And the wiring in the walls
Man from mars
This time you went too far
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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