Written At Bath To A Young Lady
You us'd me ill, and I withdrew,
Intent on satirizing you.
The Muses to my Aid I call;
They came; and told me, one and all,
That I mistook their Province quite,
They never sully'd what was bright;
And said, If Satire was my Aim,
I ought to chuse another Theme.
I heard with Anger, and Surprize;
Begg'd they'd inspire, and not advise.
In vain I begg'd--they all withdrew;
When to my Aid a Phantom flew,
And vow'd she'd give my Satire Stings,
And whisper'd some resentful Things--
Said, You delighted, all your Days,
To torture her a thousand Ways:
Bid me revenge her Cause, and mine,
And blacken you in ev'ry Line.
This I resolv'd; but still in vain--
We both must unreveng'd remain:
For I, alas! remember now,
I long ago had made a Vow,
That, should the Nine their Aid refuse,
Envy should never be my Muse.
poem by Mary Barber
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Those All Are Vain
Those all are only vain
The quarrel and the sworn enemy
Those all are vain
The anger and the envy
Those are for vain
The greed and the arrogance
All are vain
The stubbornness and the hatred
Vain
The fear and the power
Just only vain
The pride and the hypocrite
poem by Maria Sudibyo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mirage
How is it that, being gone, you fill my days,
And all the long nights are made glad by thee?
No loneliness is this, nor misery,
But great content that these should be the ways
Whereby the Fancy, dreaming as she strays,
Makes bright and present what she would would be.
And who shall say if the reality
Is not with dreams so pregnant. For delays
And hindrances may bar the wished-for end;
A thousand misconceptions may prevent
Our souls from coming near enough to blend;
Let me but think we have the same intent,
That each one needs to call the other, "friend!"
It may be vain illusion. I'm content.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Memory
THE MOTHER of the Muses, we are taught,
Is Memory: she has left me; they remain,
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing
About the summer days, my loves of old.
Alas! alas! is all I can reply.
Memory has left with me that name alone,
Harmonious name, which other bards may sing,
But her bright image in my darkest hour
Comes back, in vain comes back, call’d or uncall’d.
Forgotten are the names of visitors
Ready to press my hand but yesterday;
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends
Whose genial converse and glad countenance
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye;
To these, when I have written and besought
Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain.
A blessing wert thou, O oblivion,
If thy stream carried only weeds away,
But vernal and autumnal flowers alike
It hurries down to wither on the strand.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
George And The Chimney-Sweep
HIS petticoats now George cast off,
For he ws four years old;
His trousers were of nankeen stuff,
With buttons bright as gold.
'May I, ' said George, 'just go abroad,
My pretty clothes to show?
May I, mamma? but speak the word;'
The answer was, 'No, no.'
'Go, run below, George, in the court,
But go not in the street,
Lest boys with you should make some sport,
Or gipsies you should meet. '
Yet, though forbidden, he went out,
That other boys might spy,
And proudly there he walk'd about,
And thought–'How fine am I!'
But whilst he strutted through the street,
With looks both vain and pert,
A sweep-boy pass'd, whom not to meet,
He slipp'd–into the dirt.
The sooty lad, whose heart was kind,
To help him quickly ran,
And grasp'd his arm, with–'Never mind,
You're up, my little man.'
Sweep wiped his clothes with labour vain,
And begg'd him not to cry;
And when he'd blacken'd every stain,
Said, 'Little sir, good-bye. '
Poor George, almost as dark as sweep,
And smear'd in dress and face,
Bemoans with sobs, both loud and deep,
His well-deserved disgrace.
poem by Ann Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Upon Playing At Ombre With Two Ladies
I know that Fortune long has wanted sight,
And therefore pardon'd when she did not right;
But yet till then it never did appear
That, as she wanted eyes, she could not hear.
I begg'd that she would give me leave to lose,
A thing she does not commonly refuse.
Two matadores are out against my game,
Yet still I play, and still my luck's the same:
Unconquer'd in three suits it does remain,
Whereas I only ask in one to gain;
Yet she still contradicting gifts imparts,
And gives success in every suit - but Hearts.
poem by Matthew Prior
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Rose Up As My Custom Is
I rose up as my custom is
On the eve of All-Souls' day,
And left my grave for an hour or so
To call on those I used to know
Before I passed away.
I visited my former Love
As she lay by her husband's side;
I asked her if life pleased her, now
She was rid of a poet wrung in brow,
And crazed with the ills he eyed;
Who used to drag her here and there
Wherever his fancies led,
And point out pale phantasmal things,
And talk of vain vague purposings
That she discredited.
She was quite civil, and replied,
'Old comrade, is that you?
Well, on the whole, I like my life. -
I know I swore I'd be no wife,
But what was I to do?
'You see, of all men for my sex
A poet is the worst;
Women are practical, and they
Crave the wherewith to pay their way,
And slake their social thirst.
'You were a poet - quite the ideal
That we all love awhile:
But look at this man snoring here -
He's no romantic chanticleer,
Yet keeps me in good style.
'He makes no quest into my thoughts,
But a poet wants to know
What one has felt from earliest days,
Why one thought not in other ways,
And one's Loves of long ago.'
Her words benumbed my fond frail ghost;
The nightmares neighed from their stalls,
The vampires screeched, the harpies flew,
And under the dim dawn I withdrew
To Death's inviolate halls.
poem by Thomas Hardy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Pastoral Ballad
Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None once was so watchful as I;
I have left my dear Phillis behind.
Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire,
Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each evening repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn:
-I have bade my dear Phillis farewell.
Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamed of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine!
I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh;
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
But why do I languish in vain;
Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forgo,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be so-
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.
She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew:
My path I could hardly discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.
poem by William Shenstone
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In the United States of America, satire is protected speech, even if the object of the satire doesn’t get it.
quote by Al Franken
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
A Pastoral Ballad I: Absence
Arbusta humilesque myricæ. Virg.
Ye shepherds so chearful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None once was so watchful as I;
-- I have left my dear Phyllis behind.
Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is, to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire.
Ah lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each ev'ning repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn:
-- I have bade my dear Phyllis farewel.
Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh;
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
But why do I languish in vain;
Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought -- but it might not be so --
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.
She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.
poem by William Shenstone
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The satirist who writes nothing but satire should write but little - or it will seem that his satire springs rather from his own caustic nature than from the sins of the world in which he lives.
quote by Anthony Trollope
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
There is a place in this world for satire, but there is a time when satire ends and intolerance and bigotry toward religious beliefs... begins.
quote by Isaac Hayes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Satire is fascinating stuff. It's deadly serious, and when politics begin to break down, there is a drift towards satire, because it's the only thing that makes any sense.
quote by Ben Nicholson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
I Believe in Muses
Nine to the Universe, the Nine Divine
I believe in Muses, Inspire me to dream sublime
Empress Omega, Betty Shabazz, Nzinga all of the Queens
I believe in Muses, Inspire me to achieve impossible dreams
Your sepia back, so strong and beautiful as obsidian
I believe in Muses, Inspire me to search where truth is hidden
Thighs, eyes, hips and lips, I desire you body and soul
I believe in Muses, Inspire me to an orgasmic loss of self control
Your beauty has inspired men to create, to build, to rise
I believe in Muses, Inspire me to be a King in your eyes
poem by Vince Rogers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Elegy on Parting
It was a sad, ay 'twas a sad farewell,
I still afresh the pangs of parting feel;
Against my breast my heart impatient beat,
And in deep sighs bemoan'd its cruel fate;
Thus with the object of my love to part,
My life! my joy! 'twould rend a rocky heart.
Where'er I turn myself, where'er I go,
I meet the image of my lovely foe;
With witching charms the phantom still appears,
And with her wanton smiles insults my tears;
Still haunts the places where we used to walk,
And where with raptures oft I heard her talk:
Those scenes I now with deepest sorrow view,
And sighing bid to all delight adieu.
While I my head upon this turf recline,
Officious sun, in vain on me you shine;
In vain unto the smiling fields I hie;
In vain the flowery meads salute my eye;
In vain the cheerful birds and shepherds sing,
And with their carols make the valleys ring;
Yea, all the pleasure that the country yield
Can't me from sorrow for her absence shield;
With divine pleasure books which one inspire,
Yea, books themselves I do not now admire.
But hark! methinks some pitying power I hear,
This welcome message whisper in my ear:
‘Forget thy groundless griefs, dejected swain,
You and the nymph you love shall meet again;
No more your muse shall sing such mournful lays,
But bounteous heaven and your kind mistress praise.’
poem by James Thomson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The show is a satire, which gives us freedom to do anything we want. Satire is the magic word that wipes away any culpability. The media is jealous of this freedom.
quote by Rob Corddry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
You Are So Vain
You're So Vain
- Carly Simon
You walked into the party
Like you were walking onto a yacht
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye
Your scarf it was apricot
You had one eye in the mirror
As you watched yourself gavotte
And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner
They'd be your partner, and
You're so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't you?
You had me several years ago
When I was still quite naive
Well, you said that we made such a pretty pair
And that you would never leave
But you gave away the things you loved
And one of them was me
I had some dreams they were clouds in my coffee
Clouds in my coffee, and
You're so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't you?
I had some dreams they were clouds in my coffee
Clouds in my coffee, and
You're so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't you?
Well, I hear you went up to Saratoga
And your horse naturally won
Then you flew your Lear jet up to Nova Scotia
To see the total eclipse of the sun
Well, you're where you should be all the time
And when you're not, you're with
Some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend
Wife of a close friend, and
You're so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't you?
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
You Don't
Other people think through things!
But...
You don't.
And many learn not to repeat what stings!
But...
You don't.
Some refuse to be stung to run!
But...
You don't.
But,
You don't...
Seem to learn or be concerned.
By what's been done.
All you do is show a wound,
You have earned that comes.
Other people think through things!
But...
You don't.
And many learn not to repeat what stings!
But...
You don't.
Some refuse to be stung to run!
But...
You don't.
But,
You don't...
You rather moan and goan,
With a volume loudly heard and turned on!
'It's difficult to give a patience,
To those transfixed into receiving adulation.
Is it possible to get another assignment, please?
One that doesn't have me pleading on my knees.'
~I agree!
It's true.
I'm with you.
Some people 'just-don't-get-it'!
But...
You do what needs to be done.
Only one mission given.
And you've got yours to do, My Son! ~
Other people think through things!
But...
You don't.
And many learn not to repeat what stings!
But...
You don't.
Some refuse to be stung to run!
But...
You don't.
But,
You don't...
Seem to learn or be concerned.
By what's been done.
All you do is show a wound,
You have earned that comes.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In Vain
The stars in the sky
In vain
The tragedy of Hamlet
In vain
The key in the lock
In vain
The sleeping mother
In vain
The lamp in the corner
In vain
The lamp in the corner unlit
In vain
Abraham Lincoln
In vain
The Aztec empire
In vain
The writing hand: in vain
(The shoetrees in the shoes
In vain
The windowshade string upon
the hand bible
In vain—
The glitter of the greenglass
ashtray
In vain
The bear in the woods
In vain
The Life of Buddha
In vain)
poem by Jack Kerouac
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Concerning Resolution
Happy the man whose firm resolves obtain
Assisting Grace to burst his sinfull chain
For him the Days with golden minutes glow
Tis his the Land where milk & hony flow
Justice & mercy piety & peace
Attend his workes & crown them with success
He hopes the best that is for heavn prepard
& wants no bliss while virtue can reward
That purpled hour which ushers in the light
& that which shuts its beautys up in night
Still hears him pray still sees his actions right
For him they still on easy minutes speed
& as they move for him the rest succeed
But most Alas by vain opinion lead
Ore the wild maze of erring passions tread
& now to this & now to that we go
& each desire & neither rightly know
& act irresolute in all we do
& seldom stay to search our objects through
Desire is vain & wanton free to range
Fond of a Chace & fond the Chace to Change
By turns a thousand inclinations rise
& each by turns as impotently dies
Now thought grows wild if loose Aminta's kind
Shee spreads her Charms & captivates the mind
Anon Aminta leaves the thought at ease
No more her aires & soft Allurements please
We love reclining in ye shady bowers
by running waters near sweet banks of flowrs
To surfeit nature with full bowles of wine
& with forcd appetites on bliss refine
Then buisy then fantastically wise
Then to be some thing else we streight devise
For Fancy still undreind affors supplys
tis thus if reason from the throne be gon
The madd affections bear their master on
His life proves restless & his labour vain
By hurrying after Phantomes of the brain
So the brave Falcon when its glorys fade
When its strong wings their generous forces shed
The vacant holds ignobler birds supply
With Ravens feathers impd she mounts on high
& weak or giddy strayes along the sky
In Every Change indeed resolves we make
But those resolves to settle newer break
By contradictions thus we seem to live
Nor want the colour of a cause to give
Kind heav'n forgive us when for what we do
We woud debauch our knack of reasning too
When int'rest does on thought its force dispence
When pleasure beats upon the dazzled sence
Our resolutions oft in vain are made
Kind heavn forgive the fault & lend thine aid.
If by thy law we must temptations find
If these must try the temper of the mind
We begg thee not to change thy good decree
We begg for pardon or support from thee
Our wisdome never shoud thy ways confine
but thus confess & humbly rest in thine
Tis well theres tryalls since the mans so proud
& since he's weak tis well theres Grace allowd.
poem by Thomas Parnell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
quote by Lord Byron
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!