The Origin of Trades
When with a skilful hand Prometheus made
A statue that the human form displayed,
Pandora, his own work, to wed he chose,
And from those two the human race arose.
When first to know herself the fair began,
She played her smile's enchantment upon man;
By softness and alluring speech she gained
The ascendant, and her master soon enchained;
Her beauty on Prometheus' sense ne'er palled,
And the first husband was the first enthralled.
The god of war soon saw the new-formed fair;
His manly beauty and his martial air,
His golden casque and all his glittering arms
Pandora pleased, and he enjoyed her charms.
When the sea's ruler in his humid court
Had heard of this intrigue from fame's report,
The fair he sought, a like reception found,
Could Neptune fail where Mars a triumph found?
Day's light-haired god from his resplendent height
Their pleasures saw, and hoped the same delight;
She could not to refuse him have the heart,
Who o'er the day presides and every art.
Mercury with eloquence declared his flame,
And in his turn he triumphed o'er the dame.
Squalid and sooty from his forge, at first
Vulcan was ill-received, and gave disgust;
But he by importunity obtained
What other gods with so much ease had gained.
Pandora's prime thus winged with pleasure flew,
Then she in languor lived, nor wherefore knew.
She that devotes to love her life's first spring,
As years increase can do no other thing;
For e'en to gods inconstancy is known,
And those who dwell in heaven to change are prone.
Pandora of her favors had been free
To gods who left her; happening then to see
A satyr who through plains and meadows strayed,
Smit with his mien, she love-advances made.
To these amours our race existence owes,
From such amusements all mankind arose;
Hence those varieties in talents spring,
In genius, passions, business, everything:
To Vulcan one, to Mars one owes his birth,
This to a satyr; very few on earth
Claim any kindred with the god of day,
Few that celestial origin display.
From parents each his taste and turn derives:
But most of all trades now Pandora's thrives;
The most delightful, though least rare it seems,
And is the trade all Paris most esteems.
Related quotes
The Confessor
I have heard the fame of her beauty
And I, of notes taken of her many virtues
Which has plaqued the walls of my heart
Whereon I became subject to her fair countenance
And at the wand of her beauty my obedience I tender
Alas, I am the confessed and the confessor of her beauty
She is the beat and men in dance revolves round about her
Like the stars revolves round about the moon light
Some said, she came from the province of the goddesses
Perchance a god in disguise mated her mother thus formed she
With an irresistible beauty to plaque the hearts of men with desire
Truly, she is a secret and lovely thing to look upon
And having the likeness of a goddess even the gods gave her gifts
Oh, she is a wonder to behold; a bright garland of blooming flowers
And a crown of gold upon the head of him whom she chose for a husband
Alas, I am the confessed and the confessor of her beauty
Her beauty radiates with disease, pestilence and sin
Fixing your eyes of desire on her irresistible beauty
Unleashes the contents of the Pandora box of her beauty and you're plaqued
She is truly a blessing and a curse of wakefulness to anyone at night
She plaques the hearts of men with an unending desire of her beauty
Just like Helen of Sparta plaqued the shores of Troy with thousands of war ships
Alas, I am the confessed and the confessor of her beauty
O' goddess Pandora from the province of the goddesses—first beauty of the universe
I am the seeker, the confessed and the confessor of your beauty
Thus upon me the plaques of your irresistible beauty hath descended
And in me you have blown the coal of desire of your beauty
Which only your consent to my desire can quench this coal.
poem by Lightcheerful Briggs
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What I Once Was...
The genie is out of the bottle
Has stolen out into the night
Pandora's box is become unlocked
Things will ne'er again seem right
It came about, with no hue or shout
No alarum of fear or fright
Life took a twist, one could not resist
Rationality gave in without a fight
Succumbed to pleasure, in new-found treasure
Of her eyes, her sighs…sweet delight
Soft feel still lingers, to touch of my fingers
Press of her body to mine…e'er so slight
My being, my world, tumbled and twirled
My heart…my very soul, imbued with her light
The genie is free, Pandora can flee
What I was once…now no longer
...can I be...
poem by David Whalen
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Ballade: Legacy
Within a stalk of fennel hid,
Prometheus took fire for
some poor ancestral hominid,
infuriating Zeus in lore.
Our forbears lived by nature's law
and myth to truth is paradox,
yet when they cooked their food from raw,
they travelled paths unorthodox.
Zeus fashioned clay in counterbid,
first woman, cursed with moral flaw.
Pandora batted sweet eyelid,
Prometheus refused, wherefore
Zeus chained him, while an eagle tore
his liver flayed upon the rocks.
When Titan sought mankind's rapport,
he travelled paths unorthodox.
Zeus gave a jar and then forbid,
Pandora look into it's maw.
Of course, she peeked inside the lid
and helpless, watched the ills outpour.
Does hope remain for us in store?
the vessel, be it jar or box.
When prying led her to explore,
she travelled paths unorthodox.
Shall we live happy evermore?
our bodies shaped by boon and pox.
Will future beings add encore?
They travelled paths unorthodox.
poem by Diane Hine
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Pandora
Pandora, undone by her own curiosity according to the story, found Hope at the bottom of the fatal basket. Hope indeed had wings-and sequins, sang and was more or less green. She also spat tobacco juice when you squeezed her tummy. She had enormous eyes that peered in all directions.
'Hi', she said, sticking out her hand, 'I'm Hope'.
Pandora was taken aback, but shook her hand, not wanting to be rude.
'Pleased to meet you', said Pandora, politely. She came to put alot of stock in Hope.
'See you later', said Hope, suddenly taking wing.
'Where are you going? '
'Don't worry. I'll be back.'
But Hope was not the last item in the basket to emerge. The myth was wrong as myths often are and completely opposed to reality, which is never wrong, though...
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Pandora II
though many people prefer myth. No, after Hope, Empathy came out of the basket. Pretty as was Hope, Empathy made her look like Hans Christian Anderson. Othwise, she was completely naked, had a charming voice and complained of nothing but the cold.
'Brrr, it's cold out here', she said, precisely.
Greatly moved, Pandora handed her a tissue to wrap herself in, which she did, but it's perfume gave her a sneezing jag.
'I'm awfully sorry', she said, wiping her nose with a corner of the tissue, 'have you got a pseudophed? '
Pandora didn't.
'My name is Empathy'.
'That's a pretty name', returned Pandora, beginning to get tired of all this hand-shaking. Nevertheless, ...
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Pandoras Box
When Im in heat
Someone gets a notion
I jump to my feet
I hoof it to the ocean
We hit a beach
Where no one gives a hoot
Nobody never ever wears a suit
The ladies there
They look so proud
Thats cause they know
That theyve been so well endowed
Now, I aint much
For fannies conversation
Or care to much
About her operation
But every time pandora comes my way
I get high
Cant explain the sensation
To get it on
I gotta watch what I say
Or Ill catch hell
From the womens liberation
(chorus)
Sweet pandora
Good-like aura
Smell like a flora
Open up your door-a for me
Sweet pandora
Good-like aura
Smell like a flora
Open up your door-a for me
Sweet pandora
Mama crack a smile for me
Just for me, just for me
Just for me, just for me
Just for me, just for me
Just for me
Now I aint what
Youd call a city slicker
Or claim to fame
To be a slitty licker
But every time pandora comes my way
I get high
Cant explain the sensation
To get it on
I gotta watch what I say
Or Ill catch hell
From the womens liberation
(chorus)
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pandora’s Box of Memories
Sometimes when we open,
Pandora’s Box of memories,
we find a sad reflection
of ourselves buried within.
A reflection of how we’ve hurt,
someone at sometime,
but most of the time,
it is the mistakes we’ve made,
or debts that are left unpaid,
that come back to haunt us
in their special way.
However, sometimes on opening,
Pandora’s Box of memories,
the good things come pouring out.
The ones that make us smile
and yell hip, hip hooray,
didn’t we have a lovely day.
(9 August 2007)
poem by David Harris
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The Choices...
he never wished
to be just another contributor
of ugliness
to this world,
in fact, he
wants to be another
great artist
to convert all trash
into a beautiful
magnum opus
to cover all shit
in one huge can
and bury it on
earth
to hide all evil
back in Pandora's box
obviously, another
mission impossible
it is easier this way
let shit be shit
and let beauty be beauty
let them thrive
and let us see who wins
this drive
meanwhile, let us sit
and relax,
we shall just be the
gods and
if not
at least be judges
or jury
or
just another garbage
collector.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Venus Verticordia (For a Picture)
SHE hath the apple in her hand for thee,
Yet almost in her heart would hold it back;
She muses, with her eyes upon the track
Of that which in thy spirit they can see.
Haply, “Behold, he is at peace,” saith she;
“Alas! the apple for his lips,—the dart
That follows its brief sweetness to his heart,—
The wandering of his feet perpetually!”
A little space her glance is still and coy;
But if she give the fruit that works her spell,
Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy.
Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe foretell,
And her far seas moan as a single shell,
Pandora (For a Picture)
WHAT of the end, Pandora? Was it thine,
The deed that set these fiery pinions free?
Ah! wherefore did the Olympian consistory
In its own likeness make thee half divine?
Was it that Juno's brow might stand a sign
For ever? and the mien of Pallas be
A deadly thing? and that all men might see
In Venus' eyes the gaze of Proserpine?
What of the end? These beat their wings at will,
The ill-born things, the good things turned to ill,—
Powers of the impassioned hours prohibited.
Aye, clench the casket now! Whither they go
Thou mayst not dare to think: nor canst thou know
If Hope still pent there be alive or dead.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Who Else?
Each second spins a silken thread to weave
the minutes which take turns to interlace
the hours which days through years spin tears to race
towards an unknown destiny. Don’t grieve,
for in Life’s cup there’s joy which could deceive
the Gods, grown jealous of the human race.
This blossom has both human name and face
coeval with one smile, so I believe, -
who else since Troy’s fair Helen could receive,
such charm, intelligence and simple grace?
These qualities unique here interface
with talents never hitherto achieved...
all future generations will regret
they lived not now, - her fame none shall forget...
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Fill The Goblet Again: A Song
Fill the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;
Let us drink!--who would not?--since, through life's varied round,
In the goblet alone no deception is found.
I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have loved!--who has not?--but what heart can declare
That pleasure existed while passion was there?
In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,
And dreams that affection can never take wing,
I had friends!--who has not?--but what tongue will avow,
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?
The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam--thou never canst change;
Thou grow'st old--who does not?--but on earth what appears,
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?
Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We aree jealous!--who is not?--thou hast no such alloy;
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find--do we not?--in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.
When the box of Pandora was opened on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,
Hope was left,--was she not?--but the goblet we kiss,
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.
Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:
We must die--who shall not?--May our sins be forgiven,
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.
Fair and Fair
Oenone:
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be;
The fairest shepherd on our green,
A love for any lady.
Paris:
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be;
Thy love is fair for thee alone
And for no other lady.
Oenone:
My love is fair, my love is gay,
As fresh as bin the flowers in May
And of my love my roundelay,
My merry, merry, merry roundelay,
Concludes with Cupid's curse,--
'They that do change old love for new
Pray gods they change for worse!'
Ambo Simul:
They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods they change for worse!
Oenone:
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be;
The fairest shepherd on our green,
A love for any lady.
Paris:
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be;
Thy love is fair for thee alone
And for no other lady.
Oenone:
My love can pipe, my love can sing,
My love can many a pretty thing,
And of his lovely praises ring
My merry, merry, merry roundelays
Amen to Cupid's curse.
poem by George Peele
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What You Unlock
she had it once
unlocking
a box
it was enough
to give mankind
eternal chaos
her name
was Pandora.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Bards Of Olden Time
Say, where is now that glorious race, where now are the singers
Who, with the accents of life, listening nations enthralled,
Sung down from heaven the gods, and sung mankind up to heaven,
And who the spirit bore up high on the pinions of song?
Ah! the singers still live; the actions only are wanting,
And to awake the glad harp, only a welcoming ear.
Happy bards of a happy world! Your life-teeming accents
Flew round from mouth unto mouth, gladdening every race.
With the devotion with which the gods were received, each one welcomed
That which the genius for him, plastic and breathing, then formed.
With the glow of the song were inflamed the listener's senses,
And with the listener's sense, nourished the singer the glow--
Nourished and cleansed it,--fortunate one! for whom in the voices
Of the people still clear echoed the soul of the song,
And to whom from without appeared, in life, the great godhead,
Whom the bard of these days scarcely can feel in his breast.
poem by Friedrich Schiller
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I love you is the inscription on Pandora's box.
quote by Mason Cooley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love is Enough
Love is enough. Let us not ask for gold.
Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and selfishness;
In those serene, Arcadian days of old
Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress.
The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia's height
Lived only for dear love and love's delight.
Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we care for fame?
Ambition is a most unpleasant guest:
It lures us with the glory of a name
Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest.
Let us stay here in this secluded place
Made beautiful by love's endearing grace!
Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we strive for power?
It brings men only envy and distrust.
The poor world's homage pleases but an hour,
And earthly honours vanish in the dust.
The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate;
Let me be loved, and let who will be great.
Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we ask for more?
What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men?
What better boon of all their precious store
Than our fond hearts that love and love again?
Old love may die; new love is just as sweet;
And life is fair and all the world complete:
Love is enough!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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How, possibly, could the police have made the 'mistake' of charging the wrong man with the notorious Red Light Bandit crimes? That also is something that is fully revealed in the Pandora's Box of facts I have prepared.
quote by Caryl Chessman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Gift Of The Gods
'GIVE me thy dreams,' she said, and I
With empty hands and very poor,
Watched my fair flowery visions die
Upon the temple's marble floor.
'Give joy,' she said. I let joy go;
I saw with cold, unclouded eyes
The crimson of the sunset glow
Across the disenchanted skies.
'Give me thy youth,' she said. I gave,
And, sudden-clouded, died the sun,
And on the green mound of a grave
Fell the slow raindrops, one by one.
'Give love,' she cried. I gave that too.
'Give beauty.' Beauty sighed and fled;
For what on earth should beauty do,
When love, who was her life, was dead?
She took the balm of innocent tears
To hiss upon her altar-coal;
She took the hopes of all my years,
And, at the last, she took my soul.
With heart made empty of delight,
And hands that held no more fair things
I questioned her--'What shall requite
The savour of my offerings?'
'The Gods,' she said, 'with generous hand
Give guerdon for thy gifts of cost--
Wisdom is thine--to understand
The worth of all that thou hast lost!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Prometheus Monody
Attacked by vultures chained on a Caucasus crag,
A memory of waving emotions, his flame to drag,
adornments grace an altar, re-embraces of souls
Pandora's icon on his goals, embellishment of odds.
Investing in an one-role tragedy clothe, Styx mantle
Or even more exploding in altering strophes, a candle
Gods burned out! To beautify a vast emptiness in sky
or maybe so astounding he would be in a nimble flying.
Amazing monody... Exploding in parallel worlds valor
Each death of soul a trinkle, for this impertinent ardor
Each death of internal confessions, in trails of trains
As we encountered a path too steep, our sins to explain.
Who in worlds of symbolism transfers him diligence?
No warmth in immaculate sins, birds above congruence
His Olympian vision, a dance of ghostly Nymphs dismay
baths for it in twelve troughs, in twelve graves he 'll lay?
An eagle astounds his thoughts, his senses are enhanced
as he again re-expands in worlds of dusk, a night time rise
She may be a turmoil in this world, dimensioning a dance
descending in a world of miss, Pandora's icon in his eyes.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Now And Then
NOW
Sometimes we feel so awfully tired
and lay atop the bed.
We wait for sleep to find us
and cradle our heavy head.
But sleep doesn't seem to come anymore
as easy as it once did.
For Pandora's box, filled with its woes
is trying to escape its lid.
THEN
Our youthful bodies would shut right down'from all our tireless play.
Our minds were peaceful and quiet
from simple thinking all day.
The sandman would sprinkle sand
and bring to us sweet dreams.
We were dead to the world in our bed
and never fretful it seems.
NOW
We feel the tick of every minute
filling up our ears.
We lay there wishing we were Rip Van Winkle,
asleep for a hundred years.
Slowly the hands of the clock we watch
make its way towards morn.
We're lucky to have 3 hours of sleep
before a new day is born.
THEN
We opened our eyes and jumped out of bed,
refreshed and on the go.
All of our tiredness taken away.
We had plenty of seeds to sow.
We slept 10 hours, sometimes more
and never saw the clock.
Slowly we left our youth behind
and opened Pandora's lock
To NOW.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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