En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Prologue To Steele's Tender Husband

In the first rise and infancy of farce,
When fools were many, and when plays were scarce
The raw unpractis'd authors could, with ease,
A young and unexperienc'd audience please:
No single character had e'er been shown,
But the whole herd of fops was all their own;
Rich in originals, they set to view,
In every piece, a coxcomb that was new.
But now our British theatre can boast
Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host!

Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows
Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and beaux;
Rough country knights are found of every shire;
Of every fashion gentle fops appear;
And punks of different characters we meet,
As frequent on the stage as in the pit.
Our modern wits are forc'd to pick and cull,
And here and there by chance glean up a fool:
Long ere they find the necessary spark,
They search the town, and beat about the Park,

To all his most frequented haunts resort,
Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court;
As love of pleasure or of place invites;
And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's
Howe'er, to do you right, the present age
Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage;
That scorn the paths their dull forefather's trod,
And won't be blockheads in the common road.
Do but survey this crouded house tonight:
--Here's still encouragement for those that write.

Our author, to divert his friends to-day,
Stocks with variety of fools his play;
And that there may be something gay and new,
Two ladies-errant has expos'd to view;
The first a damsel, travel'd in romance;
The t'other more refin'd, she comes from France:
Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger,
And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger.

poem by Joseph Addison
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Prologue to the True Widow

Heaven save ye, gallants, and this hopeful age!
Y' are welcome to the downfall of the stage.
The fools have laboured long in their vocation,
And vice, the manufacture of the nation,
O'erstocks the town so much, and thrives so well,
That fops and knaves grow drugs, and will not sell.
In vain our wares on theatres are shown,
When each has a plantation of his own.
His cruse ne'er fails; for whatsoe'er he spends,
There's still God's plenty for himself and friends.
Should men be rated by poetic rules,
Lord, what a poll would there be raised from fools!
Meantime poor wit prohibited must lie,
As if 'twere made some French commodity.
Fools you will have, and raised at vast expense;
And yet, as soon as seen, they give offence.
Time was, when none would cry,—That oaf was me;
But now you strive about your pedigree.
Bauble and cap no sooner are thrown down,
But there's a muss of more than half the town.
Each one will challenge a child's part at least;
A sign the family is well increased.
Of foreign cattle there's no longer need,
When we're supplied so fast with English breed.
Well! flourish, countrymen; drink, swear, and roar;
Let every free-born subject keep his whore,
And wandering in the wilderness about,
At end of forty years not wear her out.
But when you see these pictures, let none dare
To own beyond a limb, or single share;
For where the punk is common, he's a sot,
Who needs will father what the parish got.

poem by John Dryden
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Epilogue to The Husband His Own Cuckold

Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit.
Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.
Nor is the puny poet void of care;
For authors, such as our new authors are,
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare;
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one,
But has as little as the very parson:
Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that though you like the play,
The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day;
But with the parson 'tis another case,
He, without holiness, may rise to grace;
The poet has one disadvantage more,
That if his play be dull, he's damned all o'er,
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor.
But dulness well becomes the sable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoiled a priest's preferment;
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes,
Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose,
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux.
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears,
At what his beauship says, but what he wears;
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears.
The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff.
The truth on 't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our absent author hope,
He should equip the stage with such a fop.
Fools change in England, and new fools arise;
For, though the immortal species never dies,
Yet every year new maggots make new flies.
But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find
One fool, for million that he left behind.

poem by John Dryden
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Prologue Spoken at the Opening of The New House, March 26, 1674

A plain-built house, after so long a stay,
Will send you half unsatisfied away;
When, fallen from your expected pomp, you find
A bare convenience only is designed.
You, who each day can theatres behold,
Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,
Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.
Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
And a plain suit, since we can make but one,
Is better than to be by tarnished gawdry known.
They, who are by your favours wealthy made,
With mighty sums may carry on the trade;
We, broken bankers, half destroyed by fire,
With our small stock to humble roofs retire;
Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.
For fame and honour we no longer strive;
We yield in both, and only beg—to live;
Unable to support their vast expense,
Who build and treat with such magnificence,
That, like the ambitious monarchs of the age,
They give the law to our provincial stage.
Great neighbours enviously promote excess,
While they impose their splendour on the less;
But only fools, and they of vast estate,
The extremity of modes will imitate,
The dangling knee-fringe, and the bib-cravat.
Yet if some pride with want may be allowed,
We in our plainness may be justly proud;
Our Royal Master willed it should be so;
Whate 'er he's pleased to own, can need no show:
That sacred name gives ornament and grace,
And, like his stamp, makes basest metal pass.
'Twere folly now a stately pile to raise,
To build a playhouse while you throw down plays;
While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign,
And for the pencil you the pen disdain;
While troops of famished Frenchmen hither drive,
And laugh at those upon whose alms they live:
Old English authors vanish, and give place
To these new conquerors of the Norman race.
More tamely than your fathers you submit;
You're now grown vassals to them in your wit.
Mark, when they play, how our fine fops advance
The mighty merits of their men of France,
Keep time, cry Ben! and humour the cadence.
Well, please yourselves; but sure 'tis understood,
That French machines have ne'er done England good.
I would not prophesy our house's fate;
But while vain shows and scenes you overrate,
'Tis to be feared—
That, as a fire the former house o'erthrew,
Machines and tempests will destroy the new.

poem by John Dryden
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet XXII: With Fools and Children

To Folly

With fools and children, good discretion bears;
Then, honest people, bear with Love and me,
Nor older yet, nor wiser made by years,
Amongst the rest of fools and children be;
Love, still a baby, plays with gauds and toys,
And, like a wanton, sports with every feather,
And idiots still are running after boys,
Then fools and children fitt'st to go together.
He still as young as when he first was born,
No wiser I than when as young as he;
You that behold us, laugh us not to scorn;
Give Nature thanks you are not such as we.
Yet fools and children sometimes tell in play
Some, wise in show, more fools indeed than they.

poem by Michael Drayton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Miller, His Son, And Their Ass

THO' to Antiquity the Praise we yield
Of pleasing Arts; and Fable's earli'st Field
Own to be fruitful Greece; yet not so clean
Those Ears were reap'd, but still there's some to glean;
And from the Lands of vast Invention come
Daily new Authors, with Discov'ries home.

This curious Piece, which I shall now impart,
Fell from Malherbe, a Master in his Art,
To Racan, fill'd with like poetick Fire,
Both tuneful Servants of Apollo's Choir:
Rivals and Heirs to the Horatian Lyre:
Who meeting him, one Day, free and alone,
(For still their Thoughts were to each other known)
Thus ask'd his Aid–Some useful Counsel give,
Thou who, by living long, hast learnt to live;
Whose Observation nothing can escape;
Tell me, how I my course of Life shall shape:
To something I wou'd fix ere't be too late.
You know my Birth, my Talents, my Estate:
Shall I with these content, all Search resign,
And to the Country my Desires confine?
Or in the Court, or Camp, advancement gain?
The World's a mixture of Delight and Pain:
Tho' rough it seems, there's Pleasure in the Wars,
And Hymen's Joys are not without their Cares.
I need not ask, to what my Genius tends,
But wou'd content the World, the Court, my Friends.

Please all the World (in haste) Malherbe replies?
How vain th' Attempt will prove in him, that tries,
Learn from a Fable, I have somewhere found,
Before I answer all that you propound.

A Miller and his Son (the Father old,
The Boy about some fifteen Years had told)
Designed their Ass to sell, and for the Fair,
Some distance off, accordingly prepare.
But lest she in the walk should lose her Flesh,
And not appear, for Sale, so full and fresh,
Her Feet together ty'd; between them two
They heav'd her up; and on the Rusticks go:
Till those, who met them bearing thus the Ass,
Cry'd, Are these Fools about to act a Farce?
Surely the Beast (howe'er it seem to be)
Is not the greatest Ass of all the Three.
The Miller in their Mirth his Folly finds,
And down he sets her, and again unbinds;
And tho' her grumbling shew'd, she lik'd much more
The lazy way, she travell'd in before,
He minds her not; but up the Boy he sets
Upon her Back, and on the Crupper gets.
Thus on they jog, when of Three Men that pass'd,
The eldest thinking Age to be disgrac'd,
Call'd to the Youth, ho! you, young Man for shame!
Come down, lest Passengers your Manners blame,
And say, it ill becomes your tender Years
To ride before a Grandsire with grey Hairs.
Truly, the Gentlemen are in the right,
The Miller cries, and makes the Boy alight;
Then forward slides himself into his place,
And with a Mind content renews his pace:
But much he had not gain'd upon his way,
Before a Troop of Damsels, neat and gay,
(Partial to Youth) to one another cry'd,
See, how with walking by that Dotard's side,
The Boy is tir'd; whilst with a Prelate's state
He rides alone, and dangling in the Seat,
Hangs like a Calf thrown up, across the Beast.
The Miller, thinking to have spoiled that Jest,
Reply'd, he was too Old for Veal to pass,
But after more on him, and on his Ass,
He stands convinc'd, and takes his Son again
To ride at ease himself, still next the Mane.
Yet ere he'd thirty Paces borne the Lad,
The next they met, cry'd--Are these Fellows mad!
Have they no Pity thus t'o'erload the Jade!
Sure, at the Fair, they for her Skin may trade.
See, how's she spent, and sinks beneath their strokes!
The Miller, whom this most of all provokes,
Swears by his Cap, he shews his want of Brains,
Who thus to please the World, bestows his Pains.
Howe'er we'll try, if this way't may be done;
And off he comes, and fetches down his Son.
Behind they walk, and now the Creature drive,
But cou'd no better in their Purpose thrive;
Nor scape a Fellow's Censure, whom they meet,
That cries, to spare the Ass they break their Feet;
And whilst unladen at her ease she goes,
Trudge in the Dirt, and batter out their Shooes;
As if to burthen her they were afraid,
And Men for Beasts, not Beasts for Men were made.

The Proverb right, the Cart before the Horse.
The Miller, finding things grow worse and worse,
Cries out, I am an Ass, it is agreed,
And so are all, who wou'd in this succeed.
Hereafter, tho' Reproof or Praise I find,
I'll neither heed, but follow my own Mind,
Take my own Counsel, how my Beast to sell.
This he resolv'd, and did it, and did well.

For you, Sir, Follow Love, the Court, the War;
Obtain the Crosier, or the City's Furr;
Live single all your Days, or take a Wife;
Trust me, a Censure waits each state of Life.

poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Epilogue to the Tragedy of Cato

You see in ancient Rome what folly reign'd;
A folly British men would have disdain'd.
Here's none so weak to pity Cato's case,
Who might have liv'd, and had a handsome place;
But rashly vain, and insolently great,
He perish'd by his fault -- and not his fate.
Thank Heav'n! our patriots better ends pursue,
With something more than glory in their view.
Poets write morals -- priests for martyrs preach --
Neither such fools to practice what they teach.
Though your dear country much you wish to serve,
For bonny Britons 'tis too hard to starve;
Or what's all one, to any generous mind,
>From girls, champagne, and gaming, be confin'd;
Portius might well obey his sire's command,
Returning to his small paternal land;
A low estate was ample to support
His private life, far distant from the court!
Far from the crowd of emulating beaux,
Where Martia never wanted birthday clothes.
For you, who live in these more polish'd days,
To spend your money, lo! ten thousand ways;
Dice may run ill, or duns demand their due,
And ways to get (God knows) are very few;
In times so differing, who shall harshly blame
Our modern heroes, not to act the same?

poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Prologue to Caesar Borgia

The unhappy man, who once has trailed a pen,
Lives not to please himself, but other men;
Is always drudging, wastes his life and blood,
Yet only eats and drinks what you think good.
What praise soe'er the poetry deserve,
Yet every fool can bid the poet starve.
That fumbling lecher to revenge is bent,
Because he thinks himself, or whore, is meant:
Name but a cuckold, all the city swarms;
From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms.
Were there no fear of Antichrist, or France,
In the best time poor poets live by chance.
Either you come not here, or, as you grace
Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,
Careless and qualmish with a yawning face:
You sleep o'er wit,—and by my troth you may;
Most of your talents lie another way.
You love to hear of some prodigious tale,
The bell that tolled alone, or Irish whale.
News is your food, and you enough provide,
Both for yourselves, and all the world beside.
One theatre there is, of vast resort,
Which whilome of Requests was called the Court;
But now the great exchange of news 'tis hight,
And full of hum and buzz from noon till night.
Up stairs and down you run, as for a race,
And each man wears three nations in his face.
So big you look, though claret you retrench,
That, armed with bottled ale, you huff the French.
But all your entertainment still is fed
By villains in our own dull island bred.
Would you return to us, we dare engage
To show you better rogues upon the stage.
You know no poison but plain ratsbane here;
Death's more refined, and better bred elsewhere.
They have a civil way in Italy,
By smelling a perfume to make you die;
A trick would make you lay your snuff-box by.
Murder's a trade, so known and practised there,
That 'tis infallible as is the chair.
But mark their feasts, you shall behold such pranks!
The Pope says grace, but 'tis the devil gives thanks.

poem by John Dryden
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Couplets on Wit

I

But our Great Turks in wit must reign alone
And ill can bear a Brother on the Throne.

II

Wit is like faith by such warm Fools profest
Who to be saved by one, must damn the rest.

III

Some who grow dull religious strait commence
And gain in morals what they lose in sence.

IV

Wits starve as useless to a Common weal
While Fools have places purely for their Zea.

V

Now wits gain praise by copying other wits
As one Hog lives on what another sh---.

VI

Wou'd you your writings to some Palates fit
Purged all you verses from the sin of wit
For authors now are so conceited grown
They praise no works but what are like their own.

poem by Alexander Pope
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Shinning

Theres a man who sees all there is to see
What the future holds for all
As the days grow dark as his sole and final warning
Beware of the one with invisible friends they will steal into your mind
And all too soon the signs begin to show-oh
Rise up to the shinin
Live long live now-ow
Rise up to the shinin
Dont be blind by fools again
Fools again
As the page is turned and the storys told on the visions he had seen
The house on the hill with the haunted eyes that call
No one laughed as madness came out (out out) to play its game
If you stay too long youll finally go insane, now
Rise up to the shining
Live long live now-ow
Rise up to the shining
Dont be blind by fools again
Fools again
Bells will take their toll on your way out
Theres no way were born to shine before our time
All your life, youre on your own
Lonely road lost in a time
Let the light lead your way to the golden throne,
Its the only way
Rise up to the shinin
Live long live now-ow
Rise up to the shinin
Dont be blind by fools again
Rise up to the shinin
Live long live now-ow
Rise up the shinin
Dont be blind by fools again
Oh rise up to the shinin
Wise up, theyre gonna steal your mind
Rise up the house is gonna haunt you!
No one laughed, no one cried
Oh oh ahh-ahh yeah

song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Protogenes And Apelles

When poets wrote and painters drew
As Nature pointed out the view,
Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece
To spoil the well-proportion'd piece;
And in our verse ere Monkish rhymes
Had jangled their fantastic chimes;
Ere on the flowery lands of Rhodes
Those knights had fix'd their dull abodes,
Who knew not much to paint or write,
Nor cared to pray, nor dared to fight;
Protogenes, historians note,
Lived there, a burgess, scot and lot;
And as old Pliny's writings show
Apelles did the same at Co.
Agreed these points of time and place,
Proceed we in the present case.

Piqued by Protogenes's fame,
From Co to Rhodes Apelles came
To see a rival and a friend,
Prepared to censure or commend;
Here to absolve, and there object,
As art with candour might direct.
He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings;
His servants follow with the things:
Appears the governante of the house,
For such in Greece were much in use;
If young or handsome, yea or no,
Concerns not me or thee to know.

Does Squire Protogenes live here?
Yes Sir, says he, with gracious air,
And curtesy low, but just call'd out
By lords peculiarly devout,
Who came on purpose, Sir, to borrow
Our Venus for the feast to-morrow
To grace the church: 'tis Venus day;
I hope Sir you intend to stay
To see our Venus: 'tis the piece
The most renown'd throughout all Greece
So like th' original they say;
But I have no great skill that way.
But, Sir, at six ('tis now past three)
Dromo must make my master's tea:
At six, Sir, if you please to come,
You'll find my master, Sir, at home.

Tea, says a critic, big with laughter,
Was found some twenty years ages after.
Authors, before they write, should read,
'Tis very true; but we'll proceed.
And, Sir, at present would you please
To leave your name - Fair maiden, yes.
Reach me that board. No sooner spoke
But done. With one judicious stroke
On the plain ground Appelles drew
A circle regularly true.
And will you please, Sweet-heart, said he,
To show your master this from me?
By it he presently will know
How painters write their names at Co.

He gave the pannel to the maid.
Smiling and curtesying, Sir, she said,
I shall not fail to tell my master:
And, Sir, for fear of all disaster
I'll keep it my own self : Safe bind,
Says the old proverb and safe find.
So, Sir, as sure as a key or lock -
Your servant, Sir, - at six o'clock.

Again at six Apelles came,
Found the same prating civil dame.
Sir, that my master has been here
Will by the board itself appear:
If from the perfect line be found
He has presumed to swell the round,
Or colours on the draught to lay,
'Tis thus, (he order'd me to say)
Thus write the painters of this isle;
Let those of Co remark the style.

She said; and to his hand restored
The rival pledge, the missive board.
Upon the happy line were laid
Such obvious light and easy shade,
That Paris' apple stood confest,
Or Leda's egg, or Cloe's breast.

Apelles view'd the finish'd piece;
And live, said he, the arts of Greece!
Howe'er Protogenes and I
May in our rival talents vie;
Howe'er our works may have exprest
Who truest drew or colour'd best,
When he beheld my flowing line
He found at least I could design;
And from his artful round I grant
That he with perfect skill can paint.

The dullest genius cannot fail
To find the moral of my tale;
That the distinguish'd part of men,
With compass, pencil, sword, or pen,
Should in life's visit leave their name
In characters which may proclaim
That they with ardour strove to raise
At once their arts and country's praise;
And in their working took great care
That all was full, and round, and fair.

poem by Matthew Prior
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

O Night

O night what is this
Which you have shown to me
A play built upon my worlds stage
With a cast of friends I see
A burgeoning love does grow
From where did it begin
Tell me now o night, tell me now
That which I have desired
My not to secret thoughts
Are centre stage in this piece
A tale the like of which I dream
Is this a sign for me to follow
That upon the stage I shall find
The love I have sought so often
The beginning of my life
Light the spot and hand my script
That I may stand and find
O night is this what is to be
Or is it all but a dream

poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Gypsies In The Palace

Gypsies in the palace
By: jimmy buffett, glenn frey, will jennings
1985
"i have heard that some of the great parties of all times have
Been at my house - when i wasn't there."
-- spoken:
"in days of old, when knights were bold,
And journeyed from their castles,
Trusty men were left behind,
Knights needed not the hassles.
They helped themselves to pig and peach,
And drank from king's own chalice.
Oh, it was a stirring sight
These gypsies in the palace."
"and some things never change. hit it boys!"
So long boss, knock 'em dead, don't worry 'bout a thing
Wish that we could come along, we'd love to hear you sing
Limo's here, your bags are packed, the list is by the phone
Me and snake will watch your place and treat it like our own
Look at all this liquor
Look at all this food
It's only gonna go to waste
We're not really being rude
But the good stuff's in his closet, i swear he wouldn't mind
Hell we'll just shoot the lock off, i do it all the time
We're gypsies in the palace, he's left us here alone
The order of the sleepless knights will now assume the throne
We ain't got no money, we ain't got no right
But we're gypsies in the palace, we got it all tonight
There's damsels in distress out there and we got all this beer
We'll free them from their condos and bring 'em over here
We'll show them his gold records
We'll play his music loud
We'll party just like bubba does
We'll do the old man proud
We're gypsies in the palace, there ain't no wrong or right
We're gypsies in the palace, and a' goin' wild tonight
He's the greatest guy to work for, man he's really cool
Hey snake this party's gettin' dull, throw someone in the pool
Hey let's all take our clothes off and form a conga line
Watch out for that broken glass, hey snake we need more wine
We're gypsies in the palace, there ain't no wrong or right
We're gypsies in the palace, and we're raisin' hell tonight
Hey
Oh hi there boss, what's goin' on
You say you're coming when?
I'll send snake out to pick you up tomorrow night at ten, okay!
Everybody outta here, this joint is closin' down
We gotta find someone to clean this up, he's comin' back to town
Hi there boss we waxed your cars, we raked and mowed your lawn
We couldn't find enough to do in the short time you were gone
Man it sure is peaceful here, you've really got it all
If you ever hit the road again, give me and snake a call
We're gypsies in the palace, he's left us here alone
The order of the sleepless knights will now assume the throne
We ain't got no money, we ain't got no right
But we're gypsies in the palace, we got it all tonight
-- spoken:
"hey, jimmy, it's glenn"
"glenn, how ya doin'?"
"fine man, i'm goin' on the road.
Do you know anybody who could possibly house-sit for me?"
"i got these two great guys that look after my place.
Man, they're the best!"
- notes:
Background vocals: jimmy buffett, glenn frey, timothy b. schmit
Featuring mark o'connor on fiddle

song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

As the show goes on

As the show was about to progress on the stage
I was ushered in to just manage
Comfortable seat enabling me to view
It was special seat offered to only few

I had fascination for old stage shows
It has its own and must be allowed to grow
Live shows have continuous grip on mind
We flow with the character something new to find

It is not pure imagination that carries
The whole concept is around and worries
Story around it revolves in peculiar way
We are spell bound and can not offer any say

There is different perception with comments
The public opinion may vary with some vents
They may rightly or wrongly react
It is quite logical to have different impact

I heard some uncharitable remark
Though the stage was illuminated and not dark
The show was drawing crowd
The claps for and against were so loud

The young character was in love with old lady
It was immense love but lady was not ready
The passionate show did not influence audience
The comments were expected on dotted lines hence

“The old is gold” carried some significance
In value terms it had great importance
The old was to maintain glitter all the times
The new one was able to attract sometimes

Though show was over with mixed feelings
I was not surprised to have it in the evening
Every character has its own role to play
No one should try influence their way

I know for sure that old still retain its intrinsic value
They hold the position and earn the esteem which is due
It may look funny when combined with new out look
So many stories gather around and very easily cooked

There is no clash with experienced person or raw cadet
Expert eyes catch the talent and allow it to let
Have it sown course to meet the expectation
Everything else is ruled out of question

Many couples enjoy their past time with satisfaction
This is good sign or omen with very good indication
It proves the saying that “old still carry the meaning”
The life will be same either in morning or evening

Each and every material is significant
It does not differentiate between past and present
The attraction for life material may be instant
How one carries it to end is more important

I would love to end with past
The world is moving very fast
We got to live with reality
It may still show its fine quality

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Rough Housin'

Gettin' loose at the corner joint
That's all we had to do
I said baby, when you cross that floor
I sense trouble in the room
And we were rough housin'
Seemed the thing to do
We were rough housin'
Different points of view
Fancy free, lookin' hot and lean
Most any man's desire
I said baby, when you looked my way
You know you set my blood on fire
And we were rough housin'
On account of you
We were rough housin'
We were fightin' fools
Satisfaction guaranteed
That's the kind of man I am
I said baby, won't you pardon me
But I hope you'll understand
'Cause we'll be rough housin'
Seemed the thing to do
We'll be rough housin'
Different points of view
Yeah, we'll be rough housin'
On account of you
We'll be rough housin'
We were fightin' fools
Rough housin', rough housin'
We'll be rough housin'
Rough housin', rough housin', rough housin'
We'll be rough housin'
Rough housin', rough housin', rough housin',
We'll be rough housin'
~Don Barnes/Larry Steele/Donnie Van Zant

song performed by by 38 Special
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Extraordinary Machine

I certainly haven't been shopping for any new shoes
And I certainly haven't been spreading myself around
I still only travel by foot and by foot it's a slow climb
But I'm good at being uncomfortable so I can't stop changing all the time
I noticed that my opponent is always on the go
And won't go slow so as not to focus and I notice
He'll hitch a ride with any guide as long as they go fast from whence he came
But he's no good at being uncomfortable so he can't stop staying exactly the same
If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I make the most of it I'm an extraordinary machine
I seem to you to seek a new disaster every day
You deem me due to clean my view and be at peace and lay
I mean to prove I mean to move in my own way
And say I've been getting along for long before you came into the play
I am the baby of the family
It happens so everybody cares
And wears the sheeps clothes while they chaperone
Furious you're looking down your nose at me while you appease
Courteous to try and help but let me set your mind at ease
If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I make the most of it I'm an extraordinary machine
Do I so worry you?
You need to hurry to my side? Its very kind
But it's to no avail
I don't want the veil or flowers
No everything will be just fine
If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I make the most of it I'm an extraordinary machine

song performed by by Fiona Apple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Prologue to Albumazar

To say this comedy pleased long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit,
When few men censured, and when fewer writ.
And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,
As the best model of his master-piece:
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by this Astrologer;
Here he was fashioned, and we may suppose,
He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes.
But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;
What was another's lead, becomes his gold:
Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
Yet rules that well which he unjustly gains.
But this our age such authors does afford,
As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word;
Who, in this anarchy of wit, rob all,
And what's their plunder, their possession call;
Who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey,
But rob by sunshine, in the face of day:
Nay, scarce the common ceremony use
Of, “Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse;”
But knock the poet down, and, with a grace,
Mount Pegasus before the owner's face.
Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad,
'Tis time for all true men to leave that road.
Yet it were modest, could it but be said,
They strip the living, but these rob the dead;
Dare with the mummies of the Muses play,
And make love to them the Egyptian way;
Or, as a rhyming author would have said,
Join the dead living to the living dead.
Such men in poetry may claim some part,
They have the licence, though they want the art;
And might, where theft was praised, for laureats stand,
Poets, not of the head, but of the hand.
They make the benefits of others' studying,
Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,
Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage;
'Tis all his own, when once he has spit i'the porridge.
But, gentlemen, you're all concerned in this;
You are in fault for what they do amiss;
For they their thefts still undiscovered think,
And durst not steal, unless you please to wink.
Perhaps, you may award by your decree,
They should refund,—but that can never be;
For, should you letters of reprisal seal,
These men write that which no man else would steal.

poem by John Dryden
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Plays

ALAS, how soon the hours are over
Counted us out to play the lover!
And how much narrower is the stage
Allotted us to play the sage!
But when we play the fool, how wide
The theatre expands! beside,
How long the audience sits before us!
How many prompters! what a chorus!

poem by Walter Savage Landor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Rules of Engagement

Since neither of us are committed,
To continue our relationship.
I want the ring I gave you back.
Since the obligation to fulfill that contract,
Has been cancelled.

'But...
You gave that ring to me.
And I have shown it to friends,
And family.'

That was on you who decided to
Have them view and then ruin...
The rules of engagement,
I wanted to pursue.

'And what with it will you then do? '

Pawn it!
What did you think?
I would allow my investment sink?
To have your friends and family believe,
Both of us are fools?
And I'm the one blinded by love.
And would allow that too?

Slip that off your finger!
And put it in my hand!
Maybe you will find someone else,
Who will understand your collection habits.
I-am-not-that-one!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Prologue to the Prophetess, by Beaumont and Fletcher. Revived by Dryden. Spoken by Mr. Betterton

What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess
The fate of our approaching Prophetess?
A play, which, like a prospective set right,
Presents our vast expenses close to sight;
But turn the tube, and there we sadly view
Our distant gains, and those uncertain too;
A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise,
And all, like you, in hopes of better days.
When will our losses warn us to be wise?
Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise.
Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes,
Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops.
We raise new objects to provoke delight,
But you grow sated ere the second sight.
False men, even so you serve your mistresses;
They rise three stories in their towering dress;
And, after all, you love not long enough
To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off.
Never content with what you had before,
But true to change, and Englishmen all o'er.
Now honour calls you hence; and all your care
Is to provide the horrid pomp of war.
In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilbo blade,
Your silver goes, that should support our trade.
Go, unkind heroes! leave our stage to mourn,
Till rich from vanquished rebels you return;
And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw,
His firkin butter, and his usquebaugh.
Go, conquerors of your male and female foes;
Men without hearts, and women without hose.
Each bring his love a Bogland captive home;
Such proper pages will long trains become;
With copper collars, and with brawny backs,
Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks.
Then shall the pious Muses pay their vows,
And furnish all their laurels for your brows;
Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights;
We want not poets fit to sing your flights.
But you, bright beauties, for whose only sake
Those doughty knights such dangers undertake,
When they with happy gales are gone away,
With your propitious presence grace our play,
And with a sigh their empty seats survey;
Then think,—On that bare bench my servant sat!
I see him ogle still, and hear him chat;
Selling facetious bargains, and propounding
That witty recreation, called dumb-founding.
Their loss with patience we will try to bear,
And would do more, to see you often here;
That our dead stage, revived by your fair eyes,
Under a female regency may rise.

poem by John Dryden
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Town Eclogues: Tuesday; St. James's Coffee-House

SILLIANDER and PATCH.
THOU so many favours hast receiv'd,
Wondrous to tell, and hard to be believ'd,
Oh ! H---- D, to my lays attention lend,
Hear how two lovers boastingly contend ;
Like thee successful, such their bloomy youth,
Renown'd alike for gallantry and truth.

St. JAMES's bell had toll'd some wretches in,
(As tatter'd riding-hoods alone could sin)
The happier sinners now their charms put out,
And to their manteaus their complexions suit :
The opera queens had finish'd half their faces,
And city-dames allready taken places ;
Fops of all kinds to see the Lion, run ;
The beauties stay till the first act's begun,
And beaux step home to put fresh linen on.
No well-dress'd youth in coffee-house remain'd,
But pensive PATCH, who on the window lean'd ;
And SILLIANDER, that alert and gay,
First pick'd his teeth, and then began to say.

SILLIANDER.

Why all these sighs ? ah ! why so pensive grown ?
Some cause there is that thus you sit alone.
Does hapless passion all this sorrow move ?
Or dost thou envy where the ladies love ?

PATCH.

If, whom they love, my envy must pursue,
'Tis sure, at least, I never envy You.

SILLIANDER.

No, I'm unhappy, You are in the right,
'Tis You they favour, and 'tis Me they slight.
Yet I could tell, but that I hate to boast,
A club of ladies where 'tis Me they toast.

PATCH.

Toasting does seldom any favour prove ;
Like us, they never toast the thing they love.
A certain Duke one night my health begun ;
With chearful pledges round the room it run,
Till the young SILVIA press'd to drink it too,
Started, and vow'd she knew not what to do :
What, drink a fellow's health ! she dy'd with shame :
Yet blush'd whenever she pronounc'd my name.

SILLIANDER.

Ill fates pursue me, may I never find
The dice propitious, or the ladies kind,
If fair Miss FLIPPY's fan I did not tear,
And one from me she condescends to wear.

PATCH.

Women are always ready to receive ;
'Tis then a favour when the sex will give.
A lady (but she is too great to name)
Beauteous in person, spotless is her fame,
With gentle strugglings let me force this ring ;
Another day may give another thing.

SILLIANDER.

I cou'd say something -- see this billet-doux --
And as for presents -- look upon my shoe --
These buckles were not forc'd, nor half a theft,
But a young Countess fondly made the gift.

PATCH.

My Countess is more nice, more artful too,
Affects to fly that I may fierce pursue :
This snuff-box which I begg'd, she still deny'd,
And when I strove to snatch it, seem'd to hide ;
She laugh'd and fled, and as I sought to seize,
With affectation cramm'd it down her stays :
Yet hop'd she did not place it there unseen,
I press'd her breasts, and pull'd it from between.

SILLIANDER.

Last night, as I stood ogling of her Grace,
Drinking delicious poison from her face,
The soft enchantress did that face decline,
Nor ever rais'd her eyes to meet with mine ;
With sudden art some secret did pretend,
Lean'd cross two chairs to whisper to a friend,
While the stiff whalebone with the motion rose,
And thousand beauties to my sight expose.

PATCH.

Early this morn -- (but I was ask'd to come)
I drank bohea in CÆLIA's dressing-room :
Warm from her bed, to me alone within,
Her night-gown fasten'd with a single pin ;
Her night-cloaths tumbled with resistless grace,
And her bright hair play'd careless round her face ;
Reaching the kettle, made her gown unpin,
She wore no waistcoat, and her shift was thin.

SILLIANDER.

See TITIANA driving to the park,
Hark ! let us follow, 'tis not yet too dark ;
In her all beauties of the spring are seen,
Her cheeks are rosy, and her mantle green.

PATCH.

See, TINTORETTA to the opera goes !
Haste, or the crowd will not permit our bows ;
In her the glory of the heav'ns we view,
Her eyes are star-like, and her mantle blue.

SILLIANDER.

What colour does in CÆLIA's stockings shine ?
Reveal that secret, and the prize is thine.

PATCH.

What are her garters ! tell me if you can ;
I'll freely own thee for the happier man.

Thus PATCH continued his heroic strain,
While SILLIANDER but contends in vain.
After a conquest so important gain'd,
Unrival'd PATCH in ev'ry ruelle reign'd.

poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!