En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Satyr V. Verse

Thou soft Engager of my tender years
Divertive verse now come & ease my cares
The Rake has wine the aged knave ye view
Of what his death bed Charity will do
to lay his cares & mine are layd by you
You give my mind when I unbend relief
Raise ev'ry Joy & lessen ev'ry grief
Nor do I onely these thy comforts find
thy comforts are diffusive to mankind
The men of sense of buisness or of whims
half witts or lovers ev'ry one sometimes
Will toy away a vacant hour in rimes

& they give all but lovers troubles ease
the Muses fires the flames of love encrease
Yet the fond fooles write more yn all ye rest
as if they studyd to be more unblest
of Moving things they speak in moving strains
& moan & beg a cure of all their pains
till at the last theyre workd to a belief
that what they said has been their reall grief
As strong as fate they call the chains they wear
To starrs & Angells ev'ry nymph compare
Then think their chains as strong, their nymphs as fair
thus our loves more & more the womens pride
so the wounds deeper & the cure denyd
Long may you gentle souls your fetters wear
if still you write upon ye pangs you bear
Yet know that writing makes them more severe
If Celia or Aminta scornfull grow
On the great praises which your lines bestow
Long may you feel them since you make ym so

Verse is on other subjects less unkind
& with its transports brightens up ye mind
the Drunkards catch is half the rogues delight
Where noise & briskness do their charms unite
The drawers calld & ink & paper brought
& so extempore the work is wrought
While wine inspires they never stay for thought
the Jolly words are roard in tunefull sound
While the full bottles run the tables round
& Ecchoes from the Empty ones rebound
Raisd to the Joyes above the cares of kings
their singing makes ym drink their drinking sing
O happy men if twere not for the curse
of qualms repentance & an empty purse
but happy men at least for some few hours
Who force the Muse to nothing else but rime
& when your sense is drownd sing off yr time

Verse has another powr on other men
When the vexd thoughts by writing grow serene
full of the spleen & rage & scorn to see
the tide of vice & folly run so high
some from the world retire to poetry
& when their pens what grieves their bosoms speak
how honesty's a cully witt a rake
fair Virtue beggerd beauty grown a baud
Religion made a masque & gold a God
their breasts find ease by laying down their load
so Prophetts usd inspird of old to swell
& when they spoke their Oracles grew well

For me who never have a drinker been
Nor provd the witty forces of the spleen
for me who be it chance or carelessness
(forgive me half the world when I confess)
have never been in love in all my dayes
On other principles my pen I take
for meer disintrested diversions sake
I onely write as many lovers woo
but just when I have nothing else to do
& then to please my self as well as you
I seek no praise & keep me safe from shame
Not known to many & unknown to fame
I woud not blunty rail a folly down
Nor with undecent rage on vices run
Our master Horace wisely sung of old
that satyrs better if it Jear then scold
the Gall too much prevailing spoils the ink
Nor woul I frett mankind but make ym think
tis farr more human thus to show ye place
Where you ly open then throw in ye pass

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Satyr III. Virtue

Is virtue something reall here below
Or but an Idle name & empty show
While on this head I take my thoughts to task
Methinks young Freedom answers wt I ask
In his own moralls thus the Spark goes on
Or thus if he were here he might have don

In what wild hill or unfrequented plain
hast thou been bred so ignorant of men
Such doubts in such a world to entertain
Or has thy father had an hopefull son
by Colledge education quite undon
& therefore wisely gave his others none
Believe me Sr that what you faign woud know
is but a word to signify a show
Often it is 'tis often not designd
& still it makes a riddle of the mind.
Now see how evidently this appears
in the clear language of particulars.

All men do Sporus very chast esteem
But does he rule his will or nature him
What he might be himself he little knows
Who never had a passion to oppose
he must be chast with out a world of pains
for all his virtue is his impotence.

Damon the hottest rakell of the town
has his cast misses on the common thrown
No signs of great repentance does he show
But the mans bound his wife's his virtue now

Nor friends nor glorious wine nor sparkling witt
Makes Codrus ere beyond a bottle sitt
this is his temperance his acquaintance say
& att the barr they give him leave to pay
But they forgett that Codrus is so poor
& all his virtue may be want of more

A sexton scarcely can resolve to ring
But Cotta flyes as on devotions wing
tows his old aunt in black to every prayer
Whines as he goes & prayes aloud when there
thus to be Guardian when she dies he'le gett
his virtue is the hopes of pow'r to cheat

thus various mankind cou'd I quickly trace
& show how fondly we mistake their wayes
how something which they are not oft they seem
& how that something brings them in esteem
but to be short with in my self I feel
too deepely rooted all the seeds of ill
Mad passions reason not invincible
& chance to be misguided in my will
Why shoud I think another has not these
is he more perfect man or am I less.

To such a loose harangue on t'other side
My honest Trueman woud have thus replyd
While by yr own you blame anothers soul
You must go wrong & ye illbiassd bowl
bear on a falser ground at every roul
tis granted where the moralls run awry
there your reflections very justly ly
but think you there are none to good inclind
from the meer sway of reason on their mind
think you that every one woud rather be
Slave to his passions then from passion free
for such they are who have no powr to stay
When every weak temptation calls away
Curio is summond to Corinna's house
Cross is his father cruell is her spouse
the dangers great but Curio must be gon
a pleasure tempts a passion hurry's on
Nor are the troubles which pursue it all
for you may feel the very fetters gall
Dispair & hope with lingring pangs remain
Sorrow & Joy give much a quicker pain
& love & hate in wild convulsions reign.
When with their proper objects these attack
tis to be virtuous then to drive 'em back
entrenchd with in ye rules wch prudence makes
tis virtue still an æquall mind to bear
Nor swoln wth hope nor too depressed wth fear
to lett the Man secure from passion move
in reasons orb serenely plac'd above
tis Virtue to maintain your country's cause
Support your king while he supports her laws
nor in th' oppressing of a kingdom share
for fifteen hundred English pounds a year
paid down by order of ye Commons here
tis virtue & the highest mentiond yet
to think religion not a trick of state

Nature has fooles who know not of this way
& fooles alone have priviledge to stray
But if a Competence of Sense she give
& the receivers do not upright live
their different failures do such words create
as Atheist traytor villain rakehell cheat
defamer pander whore knight of ye post
& hypocrites a Common name for most
Most strive to varnish their prevailing vice
& grant with ease when they succeed in this
the Case the same where the appearance is
but goodness ever has the same appeard
While no design is still upon its guard
the best is onely but ye best begun
Sooner or later by its self undon

Ore peaceful citts the hectring bullys reign
But while they hector so they know their men
Shoud they vex one at last to Cudgells bred
the masque of valour wont protect ye head
While the tough cane insults the shining blade

I scorn in verity old Gripus cry's
this swearing this unprofitable vice
but mony mollifys the wretches scorn
& he who hates to swear will be forsworn

thus ill men never fail of being known
how sly so e're a vizard they put on
but still the good both seem & are ye same
unmovd by passion, int'rest, humour, fame
tis thus that they deserve ye name of men
by ruling of themselves they empires gain
& laugh at fortune raisd above her reign.

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Satyr IX. The State Of Love Imitated Fm An Elegy Of Mons:r Desportes

In the st season of the infant earth
When all from Chaos took their orderd birth
When mankind from the hand of heaven came
All pure & white ere vice had gott a name
But evry act with innocence indu'd
Was more by nature then from knowledge good
Love mighty powr did graciously descend
grew fond of man & here wth man remaind
In their unsullyd hearts he chose to stay
their bliss anights their buisness all the day
Nor wonder if in such he made abode
No temples better can befitt a god
His gentle influence did their soules inspire
Each found a mate nor wanted amorous fire
Evn when injoyment had allayd desire
Secure of sweet content they daily livd
Content unmixd with fears to be deceivd
their tongues their reall sentiments disclosd
Nor studyd language on the ears imposd
their eyes an undissembling flame expresst
& they who felt it most coud speak it least
desert & softness love or beauty were
their onely arts to make a yielding fair
Plain undesigning love that never knew
to practise crueltys as Empire grew
to fashion smiles with managd airs to court
& wound a tender breast in barb'rous sport
twas more then riches riches coud not move
the meanest thought them not a price for love

But when the vices to a head increast
& all this age of downy pleasure ceast
when gold by glistring showd its dark abode
& fickleness began to be the mode
When feigning was by way of breeding taught
& onely worth his wealth the lover thought
When first to speak the mind was reckond shame
& masqd hypocrisy took honours name
the fatall change with anger Cupid saw
& thus bespoke ym ready to withdraw

Hence lett us hence with Just abhorrence go
for ill their happyness these mortalls know
Who slight the mighty favours I bestow

then darting upwards soon ye clouds he gaind
& hung in air his purpose thus explaind

You shall repent ungratefull race you shall
& know too late the Joyes from whence you fall
the loss regretting by your selves undon
who true contentments heavnly blisses shun
& after false appearing pleasures run
Since all in common do my Godhead slight
On all in common shall my fury light

& first on men who wont their hours employ
In my soft paths of simple artless Joy
Who woud be free tho for the worse you change
My powr shall thus my slighted gifts revenge
Henceforth your charmers shall be versd in arts
Not loving faithless & designing hearts
the tend'rest shall their pitty least obtain
they'le feel a pride ore many slaves to reign
to make believing fooles then give ym pain
their look their smile their action their intent
Shall all against your peace of Soul be bent
Now hope restraining when it forward bears
Now quickning hope when you're restraind by fears
Oft seeming kind then scrupulously nice
& mixing as it were their flames with Ice
to keep confusd irresolute & rackt
those bosoms they by various wayes distract
What pains you then shall feel wt rage express
How many purposes to love ym less
How many oaths to shun their sight you'le swear
Which never shall be kept against the fair
A tear a word thats feignd shall soon restore
their empire & enslave their rebells more
No matter what you saw you must believe
for strange enchantments may the sight deceive

Nay more Ile change my quiver bow & darts
to make mad work within your alterd hearts
Nor ever give the pleasing wounds I usd
Ere you my empire scornd my laws refusd
Here one a nymph that is deformd shall fire
another one to honour lost admire
& while all night by others she's embracd
The wretch shall doat because she acts the chast
Some shall be prodigall their end to gain
Nor know that who gives most shall least obtain
their hopes will still be fed but never don
to keep them still in play & loving on
In short Ile make them feel & own it pain
to live beneath inconstant womans chain
& know their folly when they scornd my reign

& You ye women shall confess it too
repenting that you ere from me withdrew
You who have given wealth its powr to move
& triumph ore the sacred rites of love
Who vice to virtue ignorance to parts
& mony can prefer to faithfull hearts
Who think to sell your selves is nothing mean
& from the prostituted bed reap gain
You never never shall again perceive
the wondrous sweets that mutuall passions have
but for their mighty riches love the great
While even they shall win you by deceit
their purpose in inveagling flattrys hide
& the lost creatures whom they gain deride
then leaving those that can be new no more
the self same arts to others practise ore
by such poor victorys to boast adress
& the faint glorys of their fame increase

As Huntsmen when they have a hare in view
Fird & impatient eagerly pursue
Now ore the mountains now across the plains
& for a little take a world of pains
Unweari'd still they follow with delight
fond of the hunting tho the game they slight
Just so the great their amorous chace shall run
Nor ought to gain you shall be left undon
With oaths & sighs & tears they will assail
but love no more when ever these prevail
Unmindfull then of what had causd their cares
for other beautys they display their snares

While you who soon perceive their broken faith
their oaths no more esteemd then common breath
tho never by my flame divine inspird
Shall inly with a rage of soul be fird
All spight to find your flatterd charms contemnd
& mad to see another more esteemd
for Justly thus my anger does ordain
that you shoud each create ye others pain

When Cupid thus had spoke his wings he spread
& with redoubled springs to heaven fled
Nor were in Idle air his curses lost
Succeeding ages found them to their cost

Ah Madam you alas have found them true
The prophesy is made too good on you
You've had the great become your beautys slave
& by experience know the great deceive
& tho' those starrs of love your charming eyes
Outshine the brightness of the midday skys
tho' your complexion with the morning vies
tho all the Graces which around you wait
Dwell on each part & fill up beautys state
Tho the bright virtues which within remain
Might promise you an everlasting reign
You see the heart was givn to you before
at a new shrine anothers charms adore
But cease my lovely weeper cease to mourn
The fair that triumphs now will have her turn
No charm against inconstancy secures
You know the lovers fire but short endures
& she'le forsaken meet a fate like yours

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Satyr I. A Letter To A Friend. On Poets.

Poets are bound by ye severest rules,
the great ones must be mad, ye little all are fools,
thus wn. I rime 'tis at my own expence,
to please my friend, I drop my claim to sence.
but now ye greater sway wch custome bears,
to forfeit souls in oaths, or sence in verse?
the using of an ill has so much power,
stamp it a fashion, & its ill no more.
since then ye humour so extremely reigns,
that ye gay folly every brest unbends,
let me beneath ye common shadow hide
the fault's not mine thats all ye worlds beside.
say then if passion, discontent, or ease
sho'd e're your friend wth poetry possess,
for these, and want, ye muses setters seeme,
to draw in cullies to their loosing game,
how may I know yepath I ought to tread,
for 'tis in all mens natures to succeed
some one way more than any else beside.
fancy the reigning planet of yer. mind
guides poets, & like her they're unconfin'd;
a bounded genius will attempt to prove,
the stings of satyr, & ye flames of love,
Jear folly, virtue by example praise,
& move our passions & or. language raise
happy one way but one he'l scorn to chuse
so much or. wilder hopes our parts abuse.
Durfy more luckily employs his quill
weak as he is he knows his talent still.
Wn C---r taught how plays debaucht ye age
he left to V---ke to defend the stage,
in rufull ballad humbly pleas'd to rage.
how great & undisturb'd by censuring foes
might eithers fame beneath thier wreaths repose
had B---l nere written verse nor C---ve prose.
B---r in Epicks may be still inspir'd,
by men of sence approv'd by all ye rest admir'd
let him of Williams thickned lawrells sing
while for himself from every page they spring
& that shall crowne ye poet wch adorns ye King
but nere to tread in scandalls rougher ways
again depart ye peacefull realms of praise.
we read his satyr & his wit allow,
we read & own the blended malice too.
but oft his muse shows an unpointed tooth
Wn. a just turn of verse don't raise ye illnaturd truth
low puns for wit his lines do often fill
& oft he rambles in too loose a stile;
the biting satyr fights in closer file.
laborious T---te has many methods try'd,
to know wt. happy way he may succeed,
A play or two employ'd his hopes at first,
far from ye best, a little from ye worst,
then bits of foreign poets to or. tongue,
more happily he brought, more sweetly sung,
flush'd with success, he rises up from hence,
to rescue David at his own expence.
so have I known some painters wn. a face
in spight of all their touches wants to please
turn up its eys & alter all its dress
the auction piece a flowing glory wears,
& where the syren fail'd; ye saint appears.
Now I, who proudly authors thus arraign,
am, may be, envious thought, & may be vain,
but if my lines can gain one friends esteem,
or my diversion be, 'tis all my aim,
I never bid perhaps nere shall for fame.
Nay sho'd I find my censures too severe,
Ide in my changing prove my temper fair,
and see with joy an error disappear;
let Dennis rules for writing well lay downe,
believe wt he prescribes his play has done,
a preface write to shew he dos not faile,
Till Hypers to himself ye fop reveale.

poem by Thomas Parnell
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A Poet To Be

A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.

I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.

I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.

I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.

But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.

I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.

I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.

I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.

A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.

I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.

I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.

It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.

A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.

But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.

How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.

As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.

poem by Adam McKim
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Scribbles Transcribed

Some write for glory and for fame.
I write because I am obsessed
and wordplay is my favourite game.

I concentrate on poetry
Because I find it to my taste
and pass my time creatively.
I could not sit and watch T.V
and live my life vicariously.
That would drive me to insanity.

I have a wide vocabulary
which I love to exercise
Harmless but it amuses me.

What better way to pass the time
than writing formal poetry
I do not find it hard to rhyme

I’ll never be a household name
Which does not bother me at all.
I write for fun and not for fame.

My writing will not make me rich
I very rarely publish it
I merely write to scratch my itch.

My pad and pen accompany me
No matter where I choose to go
Though I scribble illegibly.

Record what takes my interest
and jot down anything I see.
When I get home I do my best.

To read the jottings I have made
which is sometimes difficult
as pencilled words tend to fade.

I find that if I persevere
for long enough I understand
enough to make it very clear.

I sometimes wish that I could write
In a clear and cursive script
If I had perhaps I might.

But I am too impatient to write
All of down the things I want to
My scribbling will have to do.

Thank God for printers and P.Cs
So when I post its legible
and you can read my verse with ease.

The feed back which you give to me.
I read with greatest interest.
And it improves my poetry.

My hand writing will never be
capable of being read
by anybody else but me..

(18-Jun-07)

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Ad Comitissam Rutlandiæ

Madam, so may my verses pleasing be,
So may you laugh at them and not at me,
'Tis something to you gladly I would say;
But how to do't I cannot find the way.
I would avoid the common beaten ways
To women used, which are love or praise:
As for the first, the little wit I have
Is not yet grown so near unto the grave,
But that I can, by that dim fading light,
Perceive of what, or unto whom I write.
Let such as in a hopeless, witless rage,
Can sigh a quire, and read it to a page;
Such is do backs of books and windows fill,
With their too furious diamond or quill;
Such as were well resolved to end their days
With a loud laughter blown beyond the seas;
Who are so mortified that they can live
Contemned of all the world, and yet forgive,
Write love to you: I would not willingly
Be pointed at in every company;
As was that little tailor, who till death
Was hot in love with Queen Elizabeth:
And, for the last, in all my idle days
I never yet did living woman praise
In prose or verse: and when I do begin
I'll pick some woman out as full of sin
As you are full of virtue; with a soul
As black as you are white; a face as foul
As you are beautiful: for it shall be
Out of the rules of physiognomy
So far, that I do fear I must displace
The art a little, to let in her face.
It shall att least four faces be below
The devil's; and her parched corpse shall show
In her loose skill as if some sprite she were
Kept in a bag by some great conjurer.
Her breath shall be as horrible and wild
As every word you speak is sweet and mild;
It shall be such a one as will not be
Covered with any art or policy:
But let her take all powders, fumes, and drink,
She shall make nothing but a dearer stink;
She shall have such a foot and such a nose,
She shall not stand in anything but prose;
If I bestow my praises upon such,
'Tis charity, and I shall merit much.
My praise will come to her like a full bowl,
Bestowed at most need on a thirsty soul;
Where, if I sing your praises in my rhyme,
I lose my ink, my paper, and my time;
And nothing add to your o'erflowing store,
And tell you nought, but what you knew before.
Nor do the virtuous-minded (which I swear,
Madam, I think you are) endure to hear
Their own perfections into questions brought,
But stop their ears at them; for if I thought
You took a pride to have your virtues known,
Pardon me, madam, I should think them none.
To what a length is this strange letter grown,
In seeking of a subject, yet finds none!
But your brave thoughts, which I so much respect
Above your glorious titles, shall accept
These harsh disordered lines. I shall ere long
Dress up your virtues new, in a new song;
Yet far from all base praise and flattery,
Although I know whate'er my verses be,
They will like the most servile flattery shew,
If I write truth, and make the subject you.

poem by Francis Beaumont
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The Woman Who Loves Poesy

She has a twenty years old daughter but she leads a single life
And she knows what it feels like to be a mother but not to be a wife
Her great love is Goddess Poesy only poesy she admire
And her creative source it comes from poesy and poesy in her verse inspire.

She writes such beautiful poetry as a poet she is well known
And as a genuine wordsmith her reputation it has grown
The woman who loves poesy is good at what she do
At least one can say of her to her own self she is true.

Since writing poetry can be a hungry belly game the well informed say
She works as a bar maid in the Golf Club Rooms for to earn her hard earned pay
But all of her spare time devoted to poesy since poetry she loves to write
Her poems on many different subjects are a source of delight

To poetry lovers who read her verses and many of her say
That from penning verse she will grow wealthy and become quite well known one day
But she does not write for fame or money she only writes because she
Happens for to be a person devoted to Goddess Poesy.

poem by Francis Duggan
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An Ode To Sir Clipsby Crew

Here we securely live, and eat
The cream of meat;
And keep eternal fires,
By which we sit, and do divine,
As wine
And rage inspires.

If full, we charm; then call upon
Anacreon
To grace the frantic Thyrse:
And having drunk, we raise a shout
Throughout,
To praise his verse.

Then cause we Horace to be read,
Which sung or said,
A goblet, to the brim,
Of lyric wine, both swell'd and crown'd,
Around
We quaff to him.

Thus, thus we live, and spend the hours
In wine and flowers;
And make the frolic year,
The month, the week, the instant day
To stay
The longer here.

--Come then, brave Knight, and see the cell
Wherein I dwell;
And my enchantments too;
Which love and noble freedom is:--
And this
Shall fetter you.

Take horse, and come; or be so kind
To send your mind,
Though but in numbers few:--
And I shall think I have the heart
Or part
Of Clipsby Crew.

poem by Robert Herrick
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Satyr VI. The Spleen

Hail to the sacred silence of this Grove
Hail to the greens below the greens above
Oft have I found beneath these shady trees
A reall in imaginary bliss
for they my fancy sooth she's a cheat
Which can agreably adorn deceit
some state of life she draws with pleasing art
brings Enchanted reason to her part
Reason awhile is captive by consent
acts from all its rigid rules unbent
from our own selves conceales our reall case
Nor shows us what may be but what may please
When I by these am from my self with drawn
I straight become what ere I think upon

Now do I turn a statesman of the rate
that furnishes the world beside with chat
I many use I make a friend of none
if I flatter tis my prince alone
Mankind well versd in various villany
Misrepresent each study'd Case to me
in long petitions a present fee
sayes one your Lordship has ye royall ear
I some articles against me fear
for sinking publick funds in such a year
Then on my chair he layes a bag of coin
Nor dares to offer what he woud have mine
Another cryes I want a place at Court
Your Lships word woud make ye buisness short
I present two hundred guinnys for't
This as I take it is a life of state
when I think of this I think Ime great
But now a leaf is noisy by my head
My chain is broke all my greatness fled
In vain I woud recall the vanishd thought
Something I know did please I cant tell what
as I hunt the traces of my mind
In a new whim a new delight I find

Now among books my chief diversion lyes
I affect to be thought wondrous wise
in strange experiment discovery's
On All ye sorts shapes of flyes I read
Or print a book of shells as Lister did
when I meet a thing unknown till yn
I write for Holland to ye Learned men
the subtiltys of schooles with ease I cutt
Where learnings nothing but a meer dispute
With Ipse Dixit's fixd for arguments
quibbles formd by rules hid with pains
Waging a warr of words in spight of sense
My skill in many languages is shown
Altho' I gracefully can speak in none
No Cares no business do my brain molest
the world admires the treasures of my breast
I in barren satisfaction rest

Here do I change Insensibly again
my gay fancy paints another scene
Heark or a pleasing madness charms my sense
Or I hear songs well tund instruments
Yes tis a ball where I with airs cloths
Engage the Ladys outshine the beaus
I chuse a creature beautious as the light
Of her I beg she denys a night
Scorn with the fair does still attendant go
they're proud because their outward charms they know
fondly think them reasons to be so
But passion hearts of any temper moves
Anon shes complaisant anon she loves
When sated with the bliss their arms I quitt
I boast my triumph to each friend I meet
for men are now so scandalously vain
They think it less of pleasure to obtain
their Joys then tell 'em or'e to other men
more of grief to hide the ripe amour
then twas to smother infant love before
I drink I dance I swear I shake ye dice
try each path of pleasurable vice
till at ye last my wild unsettled life
like Comedys is finishd in a wife

by Just degrees the breezes louder grow
the same breast they sooth they roughen too
Methinks Ime strangely alterd in a trice
All soft unmanly pleasures I despise
Warr is my buisness honour is my prize
I grasp it in my thoughts push along
Nor mind the toiles by which it must be won
With such bewitching powr the walking light
leads men thro' all the dangers of the night
Ore hills vales they hunt the dazzling game
Nor feel the trouble while they see the flame
Strange force of Glory what a world are slain
to please the pride of two or three great men
how towns have fed on ratts yt scornd to yield
how dear ye hardy soldier buys ye field
Warm without anger to their arms they crowd
for anothers quarrell wast their blood
some fight curse while others run pray
In Camps they rook each other at their play
then the loosers mutiny for pay
are my brave followers slain why lett ym dy
false musterd companys my purse supply
Thus summers fraud feeds winters luxury
When in warm quarters nature craves a punk
for the Queen I loyally get drunk

Give ore my wanton fancy now give ore
the clouds are gath'ring anon they'le powr
the pleasures of my groves are fled away
the sacred silence ye shiny day
what have you then to lull you in your play

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Sonnet XIII: Youth's Antiphony

“I love you, sweet: how can you ever learn
How much I love you?” “You I love even so,
And so I learn it.” “Sweet, you cannot know
How fair you are.” “If fair enough to earn
Your love, so much is all my love's concern.”
“My love grows hourly, sweet.” “Mine too doth grow,
Yet love seemed full so many hours ago!”
Thus lovers speak, till kisses claim their turn.
Ah! happy they to whom such words as these
In youth have served for speech the whole day long,
Hour after hour, remote from the world's throng,
Work, contest, fame, all life's confederate pleas,—
What while Love breathed in sighs and silences
Through two blent souls one rapturous undersong.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Departure. AN ELEGY.

VVere I to leave no more then a good friend,
Or but to hear the summons to my end,
(Which I have long'd for) I could then with ease
Attire my grief in words, and so appease
That passion in my bosom, which outgrowes
The language of strict verse or largest prose.
But here I am quite lost; writing to you
All that I pen or think, is forc't and new.
My faculties run cross, and prove as weak
T'indite this melancholly task, as speak:
Indeed all words are vaine well might I spare
This rendring of my tortur'd thoughts in ayre,
Or sighing paper. My infectious grief
Strikes inward, and affords me no relief.
But still a deeper wound, to lose a sight
More lov'd then health, and dearer then the light.
But all of us were not at the same time
Brought forth, nor are we billited in one clime.
Nature hath pitch't mankind at several rates,
Making our places diverse as our fates.
Unto that universal law I bow,
Though with unwilling knee; and do allow
Her cruell justice, which dispos'd us so
That we must counter to our wishes go.
'Twas part of mans first curse, which order'd well
We should not alway with our likings dwell.
'Tis onely the Triumphant Church where we
Shall in unsever'd Neighbourhood agree.
Go then best soul, and where You must appear
Restore the Day to that dull Hemisphear.
Nere may the hapless Night You leave behind
Darken the comforts of Your purer mind.
May all the blessings Wishes can invent
Enrich your dayes, and crown them with content.
And though You travel down into the West,
May Your lifes Sun stand fixed in the East,
Far from the weeping set; nor may my ear
Take in that killing whisper, You once were.
Thus kiss I your fair hands, taking my leave
As Prisoners at the Bar their doom receive.
All joyes go with You: let sweet peace attend
You on the way, and wait Your journeys end.
But let Your discontents, and sowrer fate
Remain with me, born off in my Retrait.
Might all your crosses in that sheet of lead
Which folds my heavy heart lie buried:
'Tis the last service I would do You, and the best
My wishes ever meant, or tongue profest.
Once more I take my leave. And once for all,
Our parting shews so like a funerall,
It strikes my soul, which hath most right to be
Chief Mourner at this sad solemnitie.
And think not, Dearest, 'cause this parting knell
Is rung in verses, that at Your farewell
I onely mourn in Poetry and Ink:
No, my Pens melancholy Plommets sink
So low, they dive where th' hid affections sit,
Blotting that Paper where my mirth was writ.
Believ't that sorrow truest is which lies
Deep in the breast, not floating in the eies:
And he with saddest circumstance doth part,
Who seals his farewell with a bleeding heart.

poem by Henry King
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The Ecstasy

The fleeting Joy that all things have beneath
Goes off like snow while Zephirs warmly breath
The happy wish that makes our bliss compleat
it is not wealth it is not to be great
To glide along on pleasures easy floud
Or in fames wreaths to shine above the croud
Weak man who charms in these alone can see
Hear what I ask & learn to ask of me.

Send to my breast Allmighty King send down
A beam of brightness from thy starry throne
Break on my mind drive errors cloud away
& make a calm in passions troubled sea
that the poor banishd Soul serene & free
May rise from earth to visit heav'n & thee.
Come peace Divine shed gently from above
Inspire my willing bosome wondrous love
& lend thy wings & teach me how to move

But Whither whither now? what wondrous fire
With this blest influence equalls my desire?
I rise or love the kind deluder reigns
& acts in fancy such inchanted scenes
The earth retires, the parting skyes give way
& now I view the native realms of day
I mount above the starrs above the sun
& still methinks the spirit bears me on.
O strange enjoyment of a bliss unseen!
O ravishment! o sacred rage within!
Tumultuous pleasure raisd on peace of mind
Which he thats good & onely he can find!
I hear (it must be so) Ime sure I hear
Seraphick musick strike my rapturd ear
I see the light that veiles the throne on high
A light too glorious for the dazzled eye
look how around this great mysterious place
The Angells fly & as they fly they praise
Look how Apostles prophets martyrs Joyn
& all their tongues & all their harps combine
to celebrate the Majesty divine
to please heav'ns King their heav'nly lays are sung
No voice is silent not a harp unstrung

Pure & immortall quire allow me now
Since faign my heart woud pay its tribute too
Allow my Zeal to bear a part wth you
Assist my words and as they move along
With Halelujah's crown the burthend song

Father Eternall, God of truth & light
Great above all beyond expression bright
No bounds thy knowledge none thy powr confine
For powr & knowledge in their source are thine
Around thee Glory spreads her golden wing
Sing Glittering Angells Halelujah sing.

Son of the Father, blest, begotten Son
Ere the short measuring line of time begun
In thee his perfect Essence makes abode
the world has seen thy workes & owns thee God
The world must own thee loves unfathomd spring.
Sing Glittering Angells Halelujah Sing.

Proceeding Spirit, Equally divine
In whom the Godheads true perfections shine
You fill our bosomes with celestiall fire
& tis a bliss to burn when you inspire
O Lord Of Grace for Grace on earth you bring.
sing glittering Angells Halelujah sing

But Ah whats this? & where is all my heat
What interruption makes my Joy retreat
the worlds gott in my meditation crost
& the gay pictures in my fancy lost
How willingly Alas our soules woud rise
& be fixd starrs inserted in the skyes
But our attempts these chains of earth restrain
Deride our toiles & dragg us down again
Thus meteors mounting with the planets vie
But their own bodys sink them in the Sky
When the warmths gon that taught ym how to fly.

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Poems to Mulgrave and Scroope

Deare Friend.

I heare this Towne does soe abound,
With sawcy Censurers, that faults are found,
With what of late wee (in Poetique Rage)
Bestowing, threw away on the dull Age;
But (howsoe're Envy, their Spleen may raise,
To Robb my Brow, of the deserved Bays)
Their thanks at least I merit since through me,
They are Partakers of your Poetry;
And this is all, I'll say in my defence,
T'obtaine one Line, of your well worded Sense

I'd be content t'have writ the Brittish Prince.
I'm none of those who thinke themselves inspir'd,
Nor write with the vaine hopes to be admir'd;
But from a Rule (I have upon long tryall)
T'avoyd with care, all sort of self denyall.
Which way soe're desire and fancy leade
(Contemning Fame) that Path I boldly tread;
And if exposeing what I take for Witt,
To my deare self, a Pleasure I beget,
Noe matter tho' the Censring Crittique fret.
Those whom my Muse displeases, are at strife
With equall Spleene, against my Course of life,
The least delight of which, I'd not forgoe,
For all the flatt'ring Praise, Man can bestow.
If I designd to please the way were then,
To mend my Manners, rather than my Pen;
The first's unnaturall, therefore unfit,
And for the Second, I despair of it,
Since Grace, is not soe hard to get as Witt.
Perhaps ill Verses, ought to be confin'd,
In meere good Breeding, like unsav'ry Wind;
Were Reading forc'd, I shou'd be apt to thinke
Men might noe more write scurvily, than stinke:
But 'tis your choyce, whether you'll Read, or noe,
If likewise of your smelling it were soe,
I'd Fart just as I write, for my owne ease,
Nor shou'd you be concern'd, unlesse you please:
I'll owne, that you write better than I doe,
But I have as much need to write, as you.
What though the Excrement of my dull Braine,

Runns in a harsh, insipid Straine,
Whilst your rich Head, eases it self of Witt?
Must none but Civet-Catts, have leave to shit?
In all I write, shou'd Sense, and Witt, and Rhyme
Faile me at once, yet something soe Sublime,
Shall stamp my Poem, that the World may see,
It cou'd have beene produc'd, by none but me.
And that's my end, for Man, can wish noe more,
Then soe to write, as none ere writ before.
Yet why am I noe Poet, of the tymes?
I have Allusions, Similies and Rhymes,
And Witt, or else 'tis hard that I alone,
Of the whole Race of Mankind, shou'd have none.
Unequally, the Partiall Hand of Heav'n,
Has all but this one only Blessing giv'n;
The World appeares like a great Family,
Whose Lord opprest with Pride, and Poverty,
(That to a few, great Plenty he may show)
Is faine to starve the Num'rous Traine below:
Just soe seemes Providence, as poor and vaine,
Keeping more Creatures, than it can maintaine.
Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly saves,
And for One Prince, it makes Ten Thousand Slaves:
In Witt alone, it has beene Magnificent,
Of which, soe just a share, to each is sent
That the most Avaricious are content.
For none e're thought, (the due Division's such),
His owne too little, or his Friends too much.
Yet most Men shew, or find great want of Witt,
Writeing themselves, or Judging what is writ:
But I, who am of sprightly Vigour full
Looke on Mankind, as Envious, and dull.
Borne to my self, my self I like alone,
And must conclude my Judgment good, or none.
(For shou'd my Sense be nought, how cou'd I know,
Whether another Man's, were good, or noe?)
Thus, I resolve of my owne Poetry,
That 'tis the best, and there's a Fame for me.
If then I'm happy, what does it advance,
Whether to merit due, or Arrogance?

Oh! but the World will take offence thereby,
Why then the World, shall suffer for't, not I.
Did e're this sawcy World, and I agree?
To let it have its Beastly will on me?
Why shou'd my Prostituted Sense, be drawne,
To ev'ry Rule, their musty Customes spawne?
But Men, will Censure you; Tis Two to one
When e're they Censure, they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name
Soe foolish, and soe false, as Common Fame.
It calls the Courtier Knave, the plaine Man rude,
Haughty the grave, and the delightfull Lewd.
Impertinent the briske, Morosse the sad,
Meane the Familiar, the Reserv'd one Mad.
Poor helplesse Woman, is not favour'd more
She's a slye Hipocryte, or Publique Whore.
Then who the Devill, wou'd give this -- to be free
From th'Innocent Reproach of Infamy?
These things consider'd, make me (in despight
Of idle Rumour,) keepe at home, and write.

poem by Lord John Wilmot
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Half The World

Words by neil peart, music by geddy lee and alex lifeson
Half the world hates
What half the world does every day
Half the world waits
While half gets on with it anyway
Half the world lives
Half the world makes
Half the world gives
While the other half takes
Half the world is
Half the world was
Half the world thinks
While the other half does
Half the world talks
With half a mind on what they say
Half the world walks
With half a mind to run away
Half the world lies
Half the world learns
Half the world flies
As half the world turns
Half the world cries
Half the world laughs
Half the world tries
To be the other half
Half of us divided like a torn-up photograph half of us are
Trying to reach the other half
Half the world cares
While half the world is wasting the day
Half the world shares
While half the world is stealing away

song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On the Death of Mr. Crashaw

Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given
The two most sacred names of earth and heaven,
The hard and rarest union which can be
Next that of godhead with humanity.
Long did the Muses banish'd slaves abide,
And built vain pyramids to mortal pride;
Like Moses thou (though spells and charms withstand)
Hast brought them nobly home back to their Holy Land.

Ah wretched we, poets of earth! but thou
Wert living the same poet which thou'rt now.
Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine,
And joy in an applause so great as thine,
Equal society with them to hold,
Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old.
And they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see
How little less than they exalted man may be.
Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell,
The heavenliest thing on earth still keeps up Hell.
Nor have we yet quite purg'd the Christian land;
Still idols here like calves at Bethel stand.
And though Pan's death long since all oracles broke,
Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke:
Nay with the worst of heathen dotage we
(Vain men!) the monster Woman deify;
Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face,
And Paradise in them by whom we lost it, place.
What different faults corrupt our Muses thus
Wanton as girls, as old wives fabulous!

Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain
The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain
That her eternal verse employ'd should be
On a less subject than eternity;
And for a sacred mistress scorn'd to take
But her whom God himself scorn'd not his spouse to make.
It (in a kind) her miracle did do;
A fruitful mother was, and virgin too.

How well, blest swan, did fate contrive thy death;
And make thee render up thy tuneful breath
In thy great mistress' arms! thou most divine
And richest offering of Loretto's shrine!
Where like some holy sacrifice t' expire
A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire.
Angels (they say) brought the fam'd chapel there,
And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air.
'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they,
And thou, their charge, went singing all the way.

Pardon, my Mother Church, if I consent
That angels led him when from thee he went,
For even in error sure no danger is
When join'd with so much piety as his.
Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak't, and grief,
Ah that our greatest faults were in belief!
And our weak reason were even weaker yet,
Rather than thus our wills too strong for it.
His faith perhaps in some nice tenents might
Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
And I myself a Catholic will be,
So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee.

Hail, bard triumphant! and some care bestow
On us, the poets militant below!
Oppos'd by our old enemy, adverse chance,
Attack'd by envy, and by ignorance,
Enchain'd by beauty, tortured by desires,
Expos'd by tyrant Love to savage beasts and fires.
Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise,
And like Elijah, mount alive the skies.
Elisha-like (but with a wish much less,
More fit thy greatness, and my littleness)
Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove
So humble to esteem, so good to love)
Not that thy spirit might on me doubled be,
I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me;
And when my Muse soars with so strong a wing,
'Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee to sing.

poem by Abraham Cowley
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To my Friend Mr. John Fletcher, upon his Faithful Sheperdess

I know too well, that, no more than the man,
That travels through the burning desarts, can,
When he is beaten with the raging sun,
Half-smother'd with the dust, have power to run
From a cool river, which himself doth find,
Ere he be slaked; no more can he, whose mind
Joys in the Muses hold from that delight,
When Nature and his full thoughts bid him write.
Yet wish I those, whom I for friends have known,
To sing their thoughts to no ears but their own.
Why should the man, whose wit ne'er had a stain,
Upon the public stage present his vein,
And make a thousand men in judgment sit,
To call in question his undoubted wit,
Scarce two of which can understand the laws
Which they should judge by, nor the, party's cause?
Among the rout, there is not one that hath
In his own censure an explicit faith;
One company, knowing they judgment lack,
Ground their belief onthe next man in black;
Others, on him that makes signs, and is mute;
Some like, as he does in the fairest suit;
He, as his mistress doth; and she, by chance;
Nor want there those, who, as the boy doth dance
Between the acts, will censure the whole play;
Some like if the wax-lights be new that day;
But multitudes there are, whose judgment goes
Headlong according to the actors' clothes.
For this, these public things and I agree
So ill, that, but to do a right to thee,
I had not been persuaded to have hurl'd
These few ill-spoken lines into the world;
Both to be read and censured of by those
Whose very reading makes verse senseless prose;
Such as must spend above an hour to spell
A challenge on a post, to know it well.
But since it was thy hap to throw away
Much wit, for which the people did not pay,
Because they saw it not, I not dislike
This second publication, which may strike
Their conisciences, to see the thing they scorn'd,
To he with so much wit and art adorn'd.
Besides, one 'vantage more in this I see,
Your censurers must have the quality
Of reading, which I am afraid is more
Than half your shrewdest judges had before.

poem by Francis Beaumont
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O Tell If Any Fate You See

O Tell if any fate you see
Can more unhappy prove
Than where the nymph will cruell be
& still the swain must love
Twere Joy to sigh & serve a fair
Coud sighs & service gain
But if they not availing are
they grow the lovers pain
Damon as thus he spoke his grief
Thought all around him pind
But Celia bringing no relief
He Car'd not what was kind

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Infuse Life To Fly

The poet can take particle to the sky
And may infuse life in death to fly
Vicious verse will declare him a sly.

As long as there is glow in the sun
Poetry will keep the lives full of fun
Lovers of poetry exclaim “Well done! ”

Mind your words are lovely dark and deep
Welfare of the human beings do keep
Lofty thoughts of no use if sigh and weep

Mind over words as mirror of your thought
Vision, mission or poison have wrought
Let your readers never feel thoughts were bought

Vice or virtue boldly mark your verse
Metaphor or similes utter in terse
Grand style with cynicism is source of curse

Let not take the help of sacred poetry
To prove right injustice and bigotry
It is poet’s poetry to show gallantry

Who is in the world to protect poetry?
As we define it – is the voice of God
Time fears absence of essence calls it fraud.

Farce words, lewd thoughts seem shocking banality
Ribald passion eclipses its vitality
Need tempest to uproot urge of new gen with agility

Display your thoughts of a fragrant vase
That soothes the mind glare smile on the face
Such sorts of verve harbinger of grace.

poem by Shujaat Hussain
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Why Do I Write

I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go

I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain

At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down

I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it

I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am

poem by Wilfred Mellers
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All Souls' Night

Epilogue to 'A Vision'

MIDNIGHT has come, and the great Christ Church Bell
And may a lesser bell sound through the room;
And it is All Souls' Night,
And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel
Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come;
For it is a ghost's right,
His element is so fine
Being sharpened by his death,
To drink from the wine-breath
While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.
I need some mind that, if the cannon sound
From every quarter of the world, can stay
Wound in mind's pondering
As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound;
Because I have a marvellous thing to say,
A certain marvellous thing
None but the living mock,
Though not for sober ear;
It may be all that hear
Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.
Horton's the first I call. He loved strange thought
And knew that sweet extremity of pride
That's called platonic love,
And that to such a pitch of passion wrought
Nothing could bring him, when his lady died,
Anodyne for his love.
Words were but wasted breath;
One dear hope had he:
The inclemency
Of that or the next winter would be death.
Two thoughts were so mixed up I could not tell
Whether of her or God he thought the most,
But think that his mind's eye,
When upward turned, on one sole image fell;
And that a slight companionable ghost,
Wild with divinity,
Had so lit up the whole
Immense miraculous house
The Bible promised us,
It seemed a gold-fish swimming in a bowl.
On Florence Emery I call the next,
Who finding the first wrinkles on a face
Admired and beautiful,
And knowing that the future would be vexed
With 'minished beauty, multiplied commonplace,
preferred to teach a school
Away from neighbour or friend,
Among dark skins, and there
permit foul years to wear
Hidden from eyesight to the unnoticed end.
Before that end much had she ravelled out
From a discourse in figurative speech
By some learned Indian
On the soul's journey. How it is whirled about,
Wherever the orbit of the moon can reach,
Until it plunge into the sun;
And there, free and yet fast,
Being both Chance and Choice,
Forget its broken toys
And sink into its own delight at last.
And I call up MacGregor from the grave,
For in my first hard springtime we were friends.
Although of late estranged.
I thought him half a lunatic, half knave,
And told him so, but friendship never ends;
And what if mind seem changed,
And it seem changed with the mind,
When thoughts rise up unbid
On generous things that he did
And I grow half contented to be blind!
He had much industry at setting out,
Much boisterous courage, before loneliness
Had driven him crazed;
For meditations upon unknown thought
Make human intercourse grow less and less;
They are neither paid nor praised.
but he d object to the host,
The glass because my glass;
A ghost-lover he was
And may have grown more arrogant being a ghost.
But names are nothing. What matter who it be,
So that his elements have grown so fine
The fume of muscatel
Can give his sharpened palate ecstasy
No living man can drink from the whole wine.
I have mummy truths to tell
Whereat the living mock,
Though not for sober ear,
For maybe all that hear
Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.
Such thought -- such thought have I that hold it tight
Till meditation master all its parts,
Nothing can stay my glance
Until that glance run in the world's despite
To where the damned have howled away their hearts,
And where the blessed dance;
Such thought, that in it bound
I need no other thing,
Wound in mind's wandering
As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound.

poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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