Chaste Florimel
No - I'll endure ten thousand deaths
Ere any further I'll comply:
Oh! Sir, no man on earth that breathes
Had ever yet his hand so high.
Oh! take your sword and pierce my heart,
Undaunted see me meet the wound
Oh! will you act a Tarquin's part?
A second Lucrece you have found.
Thus to the pressing Corydon
Poor Florimel, unhappy maid,
Fearing by love to be undone,
In broken dying accents said;
Delia who held the conscious door,
Inspired by truth and brandy, smiled,
Knowing that sixteen months before
Our Lucrece had her second child.
And hark ye, Madam, cried the bawd,
None of your flights, your high-rope dodging;
Be civil here, or march abroad;
Oblige the 'squire, or quit the lodging.
Oh! have I, Florimel went on,
Lord what is lost my Delia's aid?
Where shall forsaken virtue run
If by her friend she is betray'd?
Oh! curse on empty friendship's name:
Lord what is all our future view?
Then, dear destroyer of my fame,
Let my last succour be to you.
From Delia's rage and Fortune's frown
A wretched lovesick maid deliver;
Oh! tip me but another crown,
Dear Sir, and make me yours for ever.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Related quotes
Delia
Delia was a gambling girl, gambled all around,
Delia was a gambling girl, she laid her money down.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delias dear ol mother took a trip out west,
When she returned, little delia gone to rest.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delias daddy weeped, delias momma moaned,
Wouldnt have been so bad if the poor girl died at home.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis looking high, curtis looking low,
He shot poor delia down with a cruel forty-four.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
High up on the housetops, high as I can see,
Looking for them rounders, looking out for me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Men in atlanta, tryin to pass for white,
Delias in the graveyard, boys, six feet out of sight.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Judge says to curtis, whats this noise about?
All about them rounders, judge, tryin to cut me out.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis said to the judge, what might be my fine?
Judge says, poor boy, you got ninety-nine.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis in the jail house, drinking from an old tin cup,
Delias in the graveyard, she aint gettin up.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delia, oh delia, how can it be?
You loved all them rounders, never did love me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delia, oh delia, how can it be?
You wanted all them rounders, never had time for me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Apology To Dr. Clayton, Bishop Of Killala, And His Lady
My Lord of Killala, I find to my Sorrow,
I can't have the Honour I hop'd for, Tomorrow.
But why I'm so wretched, my Friend must rehearse;
For I never can write my Vexations in Verse.
Disappointments are sent to poor Mortals to show,
'Tis in vain to expect to be happy below.
Yet you've a fair Prospect, it must be confess'd,
Who with Fortune, and Station, and Delia are bless'd;
With Delia, whose Soul is so fitted for you,
Who shares, with such Pleasure, the Good which you do;
Who visits your See with far other Designs,
Than conning your Rent--rolls, and raising your Fines.
No longer let Rome her old Argument boast,
That by Marriage the End of the Priesthood is lost;
That, toil'd and entangled in Family Cares,
The Clergy forget their celestial Affairs:
For, had she known Delia, she must have confess'd,
That the Church, in the Marriage of Prelates, was bless'd.
poem by Mary Barber
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The Invitation
DELIA, my dear, delightful Lady,
Time flies in town, you say,
New gowns shine fresh as May,
The Park is glad and gay,
Ah--but the woods are green and shady--
Come, Delia, come away!
The crown your kneeling slaves award you
Is beauty's royal right;
Your beauty, Delia, might
Win crowns more sweet, more bright:
Your niggard world will not afford you
The crown of Heart's delight.
Sable your court will wear--to lose you;
My garden's dressed in green,
Such buds its leaves between
As never yet were seen;
There is no flower it can refuse you--
Come to your King, my Queen!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Stagger Lee
1948, xmas eve, with a full moon over town
Stagger lee shot billy delions
And he blew that poor boy down.
Do you know what he shot him for?
What do you make of that?
Cause billy delions threw the lucky dice
Won stagger lees stetson hat.
Bayo, bayo, tell me how can this be?
You arrest the girls for turning tricks
But youre scared of stagger lee.
Stagger lee is a madman and he shot my billy d.
Bayo go get him or give the job to me.
Delia delions, dear sweet delia-d
How the hell can I arrest him? hes twice as big as me.
Well dont ask me to go downtown, I wont come back alive [no more].
Not only is that mother big but he packs a .45 [four].
Bayo, delia said, just give me a gun
He shot my billy dead now Im gonna see him hung.
She went into the delions club through billy delions blood
Stepped up to stagger lee at the bar,
Said, buy me a gin fizz, love.
As stagger lee lit a cigarette she shot him in the balls
Blew the smoke off her revolver, had him dragged to city hall
Bayo, bayo, see you hang him high
He shot my billy dead and now hes got to die.
Delia went a walking down on singapore street
A three-piece band on the corner played near my God to thee
But delia whistled a different tune, what tune could it be?
The song that woman sung was look out stagger lee.
The song that delia sung was look out stagger lee.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Written After Leaving Her At New Burns
How quick the change from joy to woe!
How chequered is our lot below!
Seldom we view the prospect fair,
Dark clouds of sorrow, pain, and care,
(Some pleasing intervals between),
Scowl over more than half the scene.
Last week with Delia, gentle maid,
Far hence in happier fields I strayed,
While on her dear enchanting tongue
Soft sounds of grateful welcome hung,
For absence had withheld it long.
'Welcome, my long-lost love, she said,
E'er since our adverse fates decreed
That we must part, and I must mourn
Till once more blessed by thy return,
Love, on whose influence I relied
For all the transports I enjoyed,
Has played the cruel tyrant's part
And turned tormentor to my heart,
But let me hold thee to my breast,
Dear partner of my joy and rest,
And not a pain, and not a fear,
Or anxious doubt, shall enter there.'
Happy, thought I, the favoured youth,
Blessed with such undissembled truth!--
Five suns successive rose and set,
And saw no monarch in his state,
Wrapped in the blaze of majesty,
So free from every care as I.--
Next day the scene was overcast;
Such day till then I never passed,--
For on that day, relentless fate!
Delia and I must separate.
Yet ere we looked our last farewell,
From her dear lips this comfort fell:--
'Fear not that time, where'er we rove,
Or absence, shall abate my love.'
And can I doubt, my charming maid,
As unsincere what you have said?
Banished from thee to what I hate,
Dull neighbours and insipid chat,
No joy to cheer me, none in view,
But the dear hope of meeting you;
And that through passion's optic seen,
With ages interposed between;--
Blessed with the kind support you give,
'Tis by your promised truth I live;
How deep my woes, how fierce my flame,
You best may tell, who feel the same.
poem by William Cowper
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Apology To Delia: For Desiring A Lock Of Her Hair
Delia, the unkindest girl on earth,
When I besought the fair,
That favour of intrinsic worth
A ringlet of her hair,
Refused that instant to comply
With my absurd request,
For reasons she could specify,
Some twenty score at least.
Trust me, my dear, however odd
It may appear to say,
I sought it merely to defraud
Thy spoiler of his prey.
Yes! when its sister locks shall fade,
As quickly fade they must,
When all their beauties are decayed,
Their gloss, their colour, lost—
Ah then! if haply to my share
Some slender pittance fall,
If I but gain one single hair,
Nor age usurp them all;—
When you behold it still as sleek,
As lovely to the view,
As when it left thy snowy neck,
That Eden where it grew,
Then shall my Delia's self declare
That I professed the truth,
And have preserved my little share
In everlasting youth.
poem by William Cowper
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On a Fan of the Author's Design
Come gentle Air! th' AEolian shepherd said,
While Procris panted in the secret shade:
Come, gentle Air, the fairer Delia cries,
While at her feet her swain expiring lies.
Lo the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray,
Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play!
In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found,
Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound:
Both gifts destructive to the givers prove;
Alike both lovers fall by those they love.
Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,
At random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives:
She views the story with attentive eyes,
And pities Procris, while her lover dies.
poem by Alexander Pope
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To Delia
Me to whatever state the gods assign,
Believe, my love, whatever state be mine,
Ne'er shall my breast one anxious sorrow know,
Ne'er shall my heart confess a real woe,
If to thy share heaven's choicest blessings fall,
As thou hast virtue to deserve them all.
Yet vain, alas! that idle hope would be
That builds on happiness remote from thee.
Oh! may thy charms, whate'er our fate decrees,
Please, as they must, but let them only please--
Not like the sun with equal influence shine,
Nor warm with transport any heart but mine.
Ye who from wealth the ill-grounded title boast
To claim whatever beauty charms you most;
Ye sons of fortune, who consult alone
Her parents' will, regardless of her own,
Know that a love like ours, a generous flame,
No wealth can purchase, and no power reclaim.
The soul's affection can be only given
Free, unextorted, as the grace of heaven.
Is there whose faithful bosom can endure
Pangs fierce as mine, nor ever hope a cure?
Who sighs in absence of the dear-loved maid?
Nor summons once indifference to his aid?
Who can, like me, the nice resentment prove,
The thousand soft disquietudes of love;
The trivial strifes that cause a real pain;
The real bliss when reconciled again?
Let him alone dispute the real prize,
And read his sentence in my Delia's eyes;
There shall he read all gentleness and truth,
But not himself, the dear distinguished youth;
Pity for him perhaps they may express--
Pity, that will but heighten his distress.
But, wretched rival! he must sigh to see
The sprightlier rays of love directed all to me.
And thou, dear antidote of every pain
Which fortune can inflict, or love ordain,
Since early love has taught thee to despise
What the world's worthless votaries only prize,
Believe, my love! no less the generous god
Rules in my breast, his ever blest abode;
There has he driven each gross desire away,
Directing every wish and every thought to thee!
Then can I ever leave my Delia's arms,
A slave, devoted to inferior charms?
Can e'er my soul her reason so disgrace?
For what blest minister of heavenly race
Would quit that heaven to find a happier place?
poem by William Cowper
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A short pastoral dialogue
(Designed for the use of her daughter and niece when very young)
LUCIA.
Come, my Delia, by this spring
Nature's bounties let us sing,
While the popler's silver shade
O'er our lambkins is display'd.
DELIA.
See how she has deck'd the ground
Op'ning flow'rets blush around;
Crystals glitter on each hill,
Polish'd by the falling rill.
LUCIA.
Here the berries bend the vine,
Lucid grapes at distance shine;
Here the velvet peach, and there
Apples, and the pendant pear.
DELIA.
View this maple, from whose wound
Honey trickles on the ground:
Who these luxuries can taste
Thankless of the rich repast?
LUCIA.
Delia, I could sit all day
List'ning to your grateful lay;
But now solar beams invade,
Let us seek a closer sh de.
poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Progress of Love
Beneath the myrtle’s secret shade,
When Delia blest my eyes;
At first I view’d the lovely maid
In silent soft surprise.
With trembling voice, and anxious mind,
I softly whisper’d love;
She blush’d a smile so sweetly kind,
Did all my fears remove.
Her lovely yielding form I prest,
Sweet maddening kisses stole;
And soon her swimming eyes confest
The wishes of her soul:
In wild tumultuous bliss I cry,
“O Delia, now be kind!”
She press’d me close, and with a sigh,
To melting joys resign’d.
poem by Robert Dodsley
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet XLV: Delia, These Eyes
Delia, these eyes that so admireth thine
Have seen those walls the which ambition rear'd
To check the world, how they entomb'd have lyen
Within themselves, and on them plows have ear'd.
Yet for all that no barbarous hand attain'd
The spoil of fame deserv'd by virtuous men,
Whose glorious actions luckily had gain'd
Th'eternal Annals of a happier pen.
Why then, though Delia fade, let that not move her,
Though Time do spoil her of the fairest veil
That ever yet mortality did cover,
Which shall enstar the needle and the trail.
That grace, that virtue all that serv'd t' enwoman
Doth her unto eternity assummon.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Searcy Foote
I wanted to go away to college
But rich Aunt Persis wouldn't help me.
So I made gardens and raked the lawns
And bought John Alden's books with my earnings
And toiled for the very means of life.
I wanted to marry Delia Prickett,
But how could I do it with what I earned?
And there was Aunt Persis more than seventy,
Who sat in a wheel-chair half alive,
With her throat so paralyzed, when she swallowed
The soup ran out of her mouth like a duck --
A gourmand yet, investing her income
In mortgages, fretting all the time
About her notes and rents and papers.
That day I was sawing wood for her,
And reading Proudhon in between.
I went in the house for a drink of water,
And there she sat asleep in her chair,
And Proudhon lying on the table,
And a bottle of chloroform on the book,
She used sometimes for an aching tooth!
I poured the chloroform on a handkerchief
And held it to her nose till she died. --
Oh Delia, Delia, you and Proudhon
Steadied my hand, and the coroner
Said she died of heart failure.
I married Delia and got the money --
A joke on you, Spoon River?
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Its About Time
I used to be a famous artist
Proud as I could be
Struggling to express myself
For the whole world to see
I used to blow my mind sky high
Searching for the lost elation
Little did I know the joy I was to find
In knowing I am only me
Im singin in my heart
Im singin in my heart
Im singin love to sing
I love to sing it from my heart
Oh the creation yeah
Of a good time doin my part
With an open-hearted laugh of realization in my mind
And now Im but a child who art
Erect in humility
Serving out a love for everyone I meet
In truth who are really me
Im singin in my heart
Im singin in my heart
Im singin love to sing
I love to sing it from my heart
No-no-no no no
Hoo no hey yeah no-no-no-no
Its about time now its about time now
Its about time now dont you know now
Its about time now its about time now
Its about time now dont you know now
Its about time we get together
To be out front and love one another
Brothers sisters everybody
We better start to help each other now
We need it now
When were sharin our love brother
Thats when we know we can shape another world
Lord lord lord lord lord lord lord lord lord lord lord lord lord lord lord
Oooh lord
Lord lord lord lord lord oh oh
Oh no lord no no oh
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet LVI: As to the Roman
As to the Roman that would free his land,
His error was his honor and renown
And more the fame of his mistaking hand
Than if he had the tyrant overthrown,
So, Delia, hath mine error made me known,
And deceiv'd attempt deserv'd more fame
Than if I had the victory mine own,
And thy hard heart had yielded up the same.
And so, likewise, renowned is thy blame,
Thy cruelty, thy glory; O strange case,
That errors should be grac'd that merit shame
And sin of frowns bring honor to thy face.
Yet happy, Delia, that thou wast unkind,
But happier yet, if thou wouldst change thy mind.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Julia to Ovid
Written at Twelve Years of Age, in imitation of Ovid's Epistles.
Are love and pow'r incapable to meet?
And must they all be wretched who are great?
Enslav'd by titles, and by forms confin'd,
For wretched victims to the state design'd.
What rural maid, that my sad fortune knows,
Would quit her cottage to embrace my woes?
Would be this cursed sacrifice to pow'r,
This wretched daughter of Rome's emperour?
When sick with sighs to absent Ovid given,
I tire with vows the unrelenting Heaven,
Drown'd in my tears, and with my sorrows pale,
What then do all my kindred gods avail?
Let proud Augustus the whole world subdue,
be mine to place all happiness in you;
With nobler pride I can on throes look down,
Can court your love and can despise a crown, --
O Love! thou pleasure never dearly bought!
Whose joys exceed the very lover's thought;
Of that soft passion, when you teach the art,
In gentle sounds it steals into the heart;
With such sweet magic does the soul surprise,
'Tis only taught us better by your eyes.
O Ovid! first of the inspired train,
To Heaven I speak in that enchanting strain,
So sweet a voice can never plead in vain.
Apollo will protect his favourite son,
And all the little Loves unto thy succour run.
The Loves and Muses in thy prayer shall join,
And all their wishes and their vows be thine;
Some god will soften my hard Father's breast,
And work a miracle to make thee blest.
* * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * *
Hard as this is, I even could this bear,
But greater ills than what I feel, I fear.
My fame -- my Ovid -- both for ever fled,
what greater evil is there left to dread!
Yes, there is one . . . . . . . . . . .
Avert it, Gods, who do my sorrows see!
Avert it, thou, who art a god to me!
When back to Rome your wishing eyes are cast,
And on the lessening towers you gaze your last --
When fancy shall recal unto your view
The pleasures now for ever lost to you,
The shining court, and all the thousand ways
To melt the nights and pass the happy days --
Will you not sigh, and hate the wretched maid,
Whose fatal love your safety has betray'd?
Say that from me your banishment does come,
And curse the eyes that have expell'd you Rome?
Those eyes, which now are weeping for your woes,
The sleep of death shall then for ever close.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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Cut Throat
Delia Demoat cut her husband’s
Throat. Delia slit it clean. She held
His hair tight with her small hand
In a firm grip. There was little fight.
Unexpected and sudden. He slumped
In the chair blood shooting across
And spraying the TV screen. Delia
Released his hair and stood back
The bloody knife in her right hand.
She was shaking, her hands shook.
On the floor by the armchair where
He sat a small book. Blood-soaked
Pages and cover. A gift from his lover.
She dropped the knife, stared at the
TV screen, some I Love Lucy show,
Canned laughter, black and white.
Flickering images. She peered over
The back of the armchair. He was
Slumped bloodied there. She ached,
The bruises showed on arms, her split
Lips mouthed words. Delia breathed
Hard, spat on his head, the phlegm
Sat there on his hair; she sniffed air,
Smelt cigar smoke, his aftershave.
She looked up. Lucy gazed at her on
The screen, canned laughter once more,
Surreal; show over, she peed on the floor.
poem by Terry Collett
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Sonnet IV: These Plaintive Verses
These plaintive verses, the Posts of my desire,
Which haste for succour to her slow regard:
Bear not report of any slender fire,
Forging a grief to win a fame's reward.
Nor are my passions limn'd for outward hue,
For that no colors can depaint my sorrows;
Delia herself and all the world may view
Best in my face, how cares hath till'd deep forrows.
No Bays I seek to deck my mourning brow,
O clear-eyed Rector of the holy Hill;
My humble accents crave the Olive bough,
Of her mild pity and relenting will.
These lines I use t'unburden mine own heart;
My love affects no fame nor 'steems of art.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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To Delia: On Her Endeavouring To Conceal Her Grief At Parting
Ah! wherefore should my weeping maid suppress
Those gentle signs of undissembled woe?
When from soft love proceeds the deep distress,
Ah, why forbid the willing tears to flow?
Since for my sake each dear translucent drop
Breaks forth, best witness of thy truth sincere,
My lips should drink the precious mixture up,
And, ere it falls, receive the trembling tear.
Trust me, these symptoms of thy faithful heart,
In absence shall my dearest hope sustain;
Delia! since such thy sorrow that we part,
Such when we meet thy joy shall be again.
Hard is that heart, and unsubdued by love,
That feels no pain, nor ever heaves a sigh;
Such hearts the fiercest passions only prove,
Or freeze in cold insensibility.
Oh! then indulge thy grief, nor fear to tell
The gentle source from whence thy sorrows flow,
Nor think it weakness when we love to feel,
Nor think it weakness what we feel to show.
poem by William Cowper
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Olney Hymn 23: Pleading For And With Youth
Sin has undone our wretched race;
But Jesus has restored,
And brought the sinner face to face
With his forgiving Lord.
This we repeat from year to year
And press upon our youth;
Lord, give them an attentive ear,
Lord, save them by Thy truth!
Blessings upon the rising race!
Make this a happy hour,
According to Thy richest grace,
And thine Almighty power.
We feel for your unhappy state
(May you regard it too),
And would a while ourselves forget
To pour our prayer for you.
We see, though you perceive it not,
The approaching awful doom;
Oh tremble at the solemn thought,
And flee the wrath to come!
Dear Saviour, let this new-born year
Spread an alarm abroad;
And cry in every careless ear,
'Prepare to meet thy God!'
poem by William Cowper
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Elegy II. On Posthumous Reputation - To a Friend
O grief of griefs! that Envy's frantic ire
Should rob the living virtue of its praise;
O foolish Muses! that with zeal aspire
To deck the cold insensate shrine with bays.
When the free spirit quits her humble frame,
To tread the skies with radiant garlands crown'd;
Say, will she hear the distant voice of Fame?
Or, hearing, fancy sweetness in the sound?
Perhaps even Genius pours a slighted lay;
Perhaps even Friendship sheds a fruitless tear;
Even Lyttleton but vainly trims the bay,
And fondly graces Hammond's mournful bier.
Though weeping virgins haunt his favour'd urn,
Renew their chaplets, and repeat their sighs;
Though near his tomb Sabæan odours burn,
The loit'ring fragrance will it reach the skies?
No; should his Delia votive wreaths prepare,
Delia might place the votive wreaths in vain:
Yet the dear hope of Delia's future care
Once crown'd his pleasures, and dispell'd his pain.
Yes-the fair prospect of surviving praise
Can every sense of present joys excel;
For this, great Hadrian chose laborious days;
Through this, expiring, bade a gay farewell.
Shall then our youths, who Fame's bright fabric raise,
To life's precarious date confine their care?
O teach them you to spread the sacred base,
To plan a work through latest ages fair!
Is it small transport, as with curious eye
You trace the story of each Attic sage,
To think your blooming praise shall time defy?
Shall waft, like odours, through the pleasing page?
To mark the day when, through the bulky tome,
Around your name the varying style refines?
And readers call their lost attention home,
Led by that index where true genius shines?
Ah! let not Britons doubt their social aim,
Whose ardent bosoms catch this ancient fire;
Cold interest melts before the vivid flame,
And patriot ardours but with life expire.
poem by William Shenstone
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