The Padlock
I triumphed, love's victorious power
Prevailed, and near approached the hour
Which should have crowned our mutual flame,
Just then your tyrant husband came.
That hoary Jailer was too hard,
To love he all access has barred,
And all our wishes to defeat,
Secures the key of pleasure's seat;
For such strange matters to account,
Our tale to ancient days should mount;
Ceres must to you sure be known,
Ceres one daughter had alone,
Who much resembled you in face,
Beauteous, adorned with every grace,
To the soft passion much inclined,
And guided by a Cupid blind.
Hymen, a god as blind as he,
Treated him as he treated thee;
Pluto, the rich and old, in hell
Made her his wife, and forced to dwell;
But she the jealous miser scorned,
And Pluto, though a god, was horned;
Pirithous, his rival bright,
Young, handsome, generous, and polite,
Found means to get to hell ere dead,
And clapped huge horns upon his head.
This as a fable you'll deride,
But love a man to hell may guide;
In hell, as here, by some strange spite,
Intrigues are always brought to light;
In a hot hole a spy concealed,
Saw all, and all he saw revealed;
And added, that the royal dame,
With half the damned had done the same.
The horned god on this report
Convokes at his infernal court,
Each odious, black, and cursed soul,
Sainted below for actions foul,
Each cuckold's soul, who during life
Did all he could to plague his wife.
Then thus declared a Florentine,
'Most mighty monarch, I'd opine
For death, for once a wife is dead,
She can't defile the marriage bed;
But ah, sir, an immortal wife
Can never be deprived of life;
A padlock, therefore, I'd invent,
Which should such accidents prevent;
She must be virtuous, of course,
When under the restraint of force;
Not to be come at by her elf,
You're sure to have her to yourself;
Would I had thought before I died,
Such a convenience to provide.'
This sage advice a loud applause
From all the damned assembly draws;
And straight by order of the state,
Was registered on brass by fate.
That moment in the shades below,
They anvils beat, and bellows blow;
Tisiphone the blacksmith's trade
Well understood, the locks she made.
Proserpina, from Pluto's hand
Receiving, wore it by command.
Sometimes the hardest hearts relent,
Even Pluto's self some pity felt,
When spouse's virtue he made fast,
And said, 'you'll now perforce be chaste.'
This lock which hell could frame alone,
Soon to the human race was known;
In Venice, Rome, and all about it,
No gentleman or cit's without it;
'Tis always thought a method sure,
All female honor to secure.
There husbands, though some sneerers mock,
Keep virtue safe and under lock.
But now to bring the matter home,
Your spouse, you know, lived long at Rome;
With bad men few infection 'scape,
He has learned the Roman modes to ape.
But all his jealous care is vain,
Love always knows his ends to gain;
That god will sure espouse our cause,
He still protects who keeps his laws;
For you have given me your heart,
And can't refuse me any part.
Related quotes
The Place of the Damned
All folks who pretend to religion and grace,
Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place:
But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined
The place of the damned -I'll tell you my mind.
Wherever the damned do chiefly abound,
Most certainly there is HELL to be found:
Damned poets, damned critics, damned blockheads, damned knaves,
Damned senators bribed, damned prostitute slaves;
Damned lawyers and judges, damned lords and damned squires;
Damned spies and informers, damned friends and damned liars;
Damned villains, corrupted in every station;
Damned time-serving priests all over the nation;
And into the bargain I'll readily give you
Damned ignorant prelates, and counsellors privy.
Then let us no longer by parsons be flammed,
For we know by these marks the place of the damned:
And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome.
How happy for us that it is not at home!
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Hes A Go Getter
Hes a go getter, go getter
When his wife gets off from work, hell go get her
Now Ive got a neighbor that lives down the road a ways
His wife holds down a steady job, he dont turn his hand all day
I know that most of you will know the kind Im talkin about
The kind that rather than have to work, hed rather do without
But hes a go getter, a go getter
When his wife gets off from work, hell go get her
Theres a group of men in the court house yard any time that you go by
Playin checkers and tradin odds and makin jokes about their wives
They wait all week for pay day and they hold the moneys plenty
And the wife thats worked those long hard hours never gets a penny
But hes a go getter, a go getter
When his wife gets off from work, hell go get her
Yes hes a go getter, a go getter
When his wife gets off from work, hell go get her
Hes a go getter, a go getter
When his wife gets off from work, hell go get her
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Jealous Husband
A CERTAIN husband who, from jealous fear,
With one eye slept while t'other watched his dear,
Deprived his wife of every social joy,
(Friends oft the jealous character annoy,)
And made a fine collection in a book,
Of tricks with which the sex their wishes hook.
Strange fool! as if their wiles, to speak the truth,
Were not a hydra, both in age and youth.
HIS wife howe'er engaged his constant cares;
He counted e'en the number of her hairs;
And kept a hag who followed every hour,
Where'er she went, each motion to devour;
Duenna like, true semblance of a shade,
That never quits, yet moves as if afraid.
THIS arch collection, like a prayer-book bound;
Was in the blockhead's pocket always found,
The form religious of the work, he thought,
Would prove a charm 'gainst vice whenever sought!
ONE holy day, it happened that our dame,
As from the neighb'ring church she homeward came;
And passed a house, some wight, concealed from view;
A basket full of filth upon her threw.
WITH anxious care apologies were made;
The lady, frightened by the frolick played,
Quite unsuspicious to the mansion went;
Her aged friend for other clothes she sent,
Who hurried home, and ent'ring out of breath;
Informed old hunks--what pained him more than death
ZOUNDS! cried the latter, vainly I may look
To find a case like this within my book;
A dupe I'm made, and nothing can be worse:--
Hell seize the work--'tis thoroughly a curse!
NOT wrong he proved, for, truly to confess;
This throwing dirt upon the lady's dress
Was done to get the hag, with Argus' eyes
Removed a certain distance from the prize.
The gay gallant, who watched the lucky hour,
Felt doubly blessed to have her in his power.
HOW vain our schemes to guard the wily sex!
Oft plots we find, that ev'ry sense perplex.
Go, jealous husbands, books of cases burn;
Caresses lavish, and you'll find return.
poem by La Fontaine
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Love Is Hell
There's strange weather in the back of the room
And she's pretty, Jesse's spinning the tunes
Eyelashes, and some white leather boots
God, what have I been drinking?
I could be serious but I'm just kiddin' around
I could be anything, anything but sticking around
Love is hell
Love is hell
Love is . . . hell
Is . . .hell
It's raining, I can see it outside
Funny I'm still in it
Just sitting here with Johnny and Raph'
Untll the room starts spinning
I could be serious but I'm just kiddin' around
I could be anything, nothing, whatever, oh well
Love is hell
Love is hell
Love is . . . hell
Love is . . . hell
Love is . . . hell
Love is . . . hell
Love is . . . hell
Love is . . . hell
Love is . . . hell
Is . . . hell
song performed by by Ryan Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Written For My Son, Upon Lady Santry's Coming To School, To See Her Son, And Getting The Scholars A Play--Day.
So Ceres, lovely and divine,
Eager to see her Proserpine,
Blessing the Nations as she pass'd,
Reach'd the fell Tyrant's Court at last;
Around her shot a Gleam of Light,
Diffusing Joy, dispelling Night;
And, whilst she gilds the dismal Gloom,
The Damn'd a--while forget their Doom;
The Danaids no longer fill;
And Sisyphus's Stone stood still;
Ixion wonders why he strove,
With impious Arts, to rival Fove;
Grim Pluto smil'd; all Hell look'd gay;
Happy, as we were Yesterday.
poem by Mary Barber
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The Last Giustianini
O WIFE, wife, wife! As if the sacred name
Could weary one with saying! Once again
Laying against my brow your lips' soft flame,
Join with me, Sweetest, in love's new refrain,
Since the whole music of my late-found life
Is that we call each other 'husband -- wife.'
And yet, stand back, and let your cloth of gold
Straighten its sumptuous lines from waist to knee,
And, flowing firmly outward, fold on fold,
Invest your slim young form with majesty
As when, in those calm bridal robes arrayed,
You stood beside me, and I was afraid.
I was afraid -- O sweetness, whiteness, youth,
Best gift of God, I feared you! I, indeed,
For whom all womanhood has been, forsooth,
Summed up in the sole Virgin of the Creed,
I thought that day our Lady's self stood there
And bound herself to me with vow and prayer.
Ah, yes, that day. I sat, remember well,
Half-crook'd above a missal, and laid in
The gold-leaf slowly; silence in my cell;
The picture, Satan tempting Christ to sin
Upon the mount's blue, pointed pinnacle,
The world outspread beneath as fair as hell --
When suddenly they summoned me. I stood
Abashed before the Abbot, who reclined
Full-bellied in his chair beneath the rood,
And roseate with having lately dined;
And then -- I standing there abashed -- he said:
'The house of Giustiniani all lie dead.'
It scarcely seemed to touch me (I had led
A grated life so long) that oversea
My kinsmen in their knighthood should lie dead,
Nor that this sudden death should set me free,
Me, the last Giustiniani -- well, what then?
A monk! -- The Giustiniani had been men.
So when the Abbot said: 'The state decrees
That you, the latest scion of the house
Which died in vain for Venice overseas,
Should be exempted from your sacred vows,
And straightway, when you leave this cloistered place,
Take wife, and add new honors to the race,'
I hardly heard him -- would have crept again
To the warped missal -- but he snatched a sword
And girded me, and all the heart of men
Rushed through me, as he laughed and hailed me lord,
And, with my hand upon the hilt, I cried,
'Viva San Marco!' like my kin who died.
But, straightway, when, a new-made knight, I stood
Beneath the bridal arch, and saw you come,
A certain monkish warping of the blood
Ran up and struck the man's heart in me dumb;
I breathed an Ave to our Lady's grace,
And did not dare to look upon your face.
And when we swept the waters side by side,
With timbrelled gladness clashing on the air,
I trembled at your image in the tide,
And warded off the devil with a prayer,
Still seeming in a golden dream to move
Through fiendish labyrinths of forbidden love.
But when they left us, and we stood alone,
I, the last Giustiniani, face to face
With your unvisioned beauty, made my own
In this, the last strange bridal of our race,
And, looking up at last to meet your eyes,
Saw in their depths the star of love arise,
Ah, then the monk's garb shrivelled from my heart,
And left me man to face your womanhood.
Without a prayer to keep our lips apart
I turned about and kissed you where you stood,
And gathering all the gladness of my life
Into a new-found word, I called you 'wife!'
poem by Edith Wharton
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If There Were No Afterlife
Don't lie to me darling,
Is there an afterlife?
Or is this sad mortal thing,
This thing we call ‘love'
Is it all I can do to be your wife?
If this short time,
Is all there is for truth,
What's the point in prayer?
All I want is you.
And if there is a hell,
A hell for you and I,
That can't be really be hell, now can it,
So in that hell I confide.
But if the earth were heaven,
And you were here no more,
I would choose a damned life any day,
For heaven without you is none.
If tomorrow I were hanged,
Would you meet me in the afterlife?
And if there were no afterlife,
Would you still let me be your wife?
Darling,
What if there is no heaven?
Could I still call you mine?
Darling,
What if there is nothing?
Could we still be friends?
Darling,
What if there is everything,
What of us then?
poem by Dayna Mortimore
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At Bay
Wife
Reach out your arms, and hold me close and fast.
Tell me there are no memories of your past
That mar this love of ours, so great, so vast.
Husband
Some truths are cheapened when too oft averred.
Does not the deed speak louder than the word?
(dear God, that old dream woke again and stirred.)
Wife
As you love me, you never loved before?
Though oft you say it, say it yet once more.
My heart is jealous of those days of yore.
Husband
Sweet wife, dear comrade, mother of my child,
My life is yours by memory undefiled.
(it stirs again, that passion brief and wild.)
Wife
You never knew a happier hour than this?
We two alone, our hearts surcharged with bliss,
Nor other kisses, sweet as my own kiss?
Husband
I was a thirsty field, long parched with drouth;
You were the warm rain, blowing from the south.
(But, ah, the crimson madness of her mouth!)
Wife
You would not, if you could, go down life’s track
For just one little moment and bring back
Some vanished rapture that you miss or lack?
Husband
I am content. You are my life, my all.
(One burning hour, but one, could I recall;
God, how men lie when driven to the wall!)
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Dear Wife
Dear Wife I write you this poem
As I have been told it would do me well,
To let you know what you have done to me,
And ask why you put me through all this hell.
I brought you here all the way from your home
To be my wife and my love forever more,
I then gave you all, and I did without,
But then your went knocking at other mens door.
I then found out you were telling lies about me
And love letters and phone calls to other men you sent
But you I had trusted with my whole heart and soul
So your many affairs on me, I never had the hint.
Dear Wife this is your poem
I hope you read it over and over again
Your sister said your affair on me wasn't your first
As you did it also with your other husbands and men.
Did you tell anyone else what you did too me
About mentally and physically abusing me all the time
And how you always put yourself always first
And never what was yours was also was mine.
You left our house when your family had slept
So you could go out and be with with another man
As you didn't care who you used or had hurt
And you I don't think no one could ever understand.
Dear Wife here is more of your poem
I truly hope that you will read it all
Have you told anyone who you left me for
Or are you ashamed and want that to be my call.
He too is a liar and and user and also a thief
And in so many ways he is just like you
As he too has not a job but lives off others
So he now tells you what you can or cannot do.
He had cheated on his wife so she left him
And also I found out he is a Momma’s boy
He is a coward and he cant fight his own fight
And as you know all of that is a true story.
Dear Wife here is more of your poem
There is so much more that I need to write
Are you going to raise your daughters the way you live
And have them believing that you were always right.
Will they think its alright to jump from one man to another
And its better to always take than it is to give,
And to ignore GOD’S word and think only of themselves
Tell me is that how you want them to live.
Soon one day all of your family and friends will find out
Of all of your lying and the ways that you do act
And hopefully none of your family will turn out like you
And as you know those are not lies, but only fact.
Dear Wife this of course is your poem
And you know that none of it is a lie
I never expected what you had done to me
So deep inside my soul I surely did die.
I kept all the messages you sent in your letters
Even the one about your hickey given in our house
The one your bragged about that was given to you
And it wasn't given by me, your spouse.
I remember when you told your daughters and me
How every Sunday that you had to go to school,
Even on Valentines day and your Birthday you had to go
Then I found out it was lie, and once again I am the fool.
Dear Wife here is some more of your poem
I am beginning to feel a lot better now,
As I did nothing wrong and it was always you,
And truly I do feel so happy with my soul and I am proud.
You committed adultery and you robbed and you stole,
And I stayed truthful to my wife and love which was you,
When you were abandoned in Scotland for over a year
Remember it was I your husband who wanted you.
I still have the pictures and the mail you had sent
And everyone even your family knows of your past,
All your adultery and affairs and cheating you have done,
The evils you have done to others will always last.
Dear Wife again this is your poem
If not without you it would of never been born
Some talk about the fury inflicted by scorned women
But I tell you this, a man too does not like to be scorned.
You have gossiped and criticized everyone in your life
Told of secrets and promises that you swore to keep
You honor no one and loyalty is not your friend,
And for you soul, sad to say no one will ever weep.
You have talked about your sisters and your brother
You said of their problems that they have many
Then you talked about your ex-husbands and ex-lovers
And this and we say Wife; Problems you have many.
Dear Wife This is the end of my poem
I hope truly that you have read it well,
And I hope all that know you, have read it too,
As they will too know, the truth is all that I did tell.
You have no conscience or dignity about yourself,
Is that why you changed your looks once again,
You cant change your soul, like changing of your hair
Seems you cant stay away from adultery and sin.
When you sleep tell me how do you sleep
I bet you sleep well, that is if you have not a soul,
And are you waiting for another man to come in your life,
So you can again start another life not far down the road.
Dear wife, I wander will your daughters be like you
Later in years when women they will become
You already have taught them how to lie and steal
And how to use men for gain and also fun.
I remember when they told me about all your boyfriends
And all the men you had stay with you for the night
And sad to say I later became one of those men
I guess I became the man next in your expanding line.
I wander if your daughters are happy with you
And the life that you gave them to live
They don't know how to be true and virtuous woman
The greatest present a mother to her daughter she could give.
Dear Wife, that name I wont call you anymore
As my wife to me you can never be
As you did the sins no other wife would ever do
And everyone of that one fact would always agree.
So you can tell your lies to everyone that you meet
Do you believe any one but a sinner would believe your lies
As you don't and never did walk the steps of morality or virtue
Now when you feel the cold wind that is GODS sadden sigh.
So using me and abusing me will happen no more
As to my mind and soul on that one thought I do reflect
As i can do so much better but you will not ever
And now my Dear Wife, you will ever be known as my ex.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Keeping His First Wife Now
IT’S OH! for a rivet in marriage bonds,
And a splice in the knot untied—
The sanctity of the marriage tie
Is growing more sanctified!
They’re getting mixed up in society,
There’s an awful family row,
For Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is “keeping” his first wife now!
Oh! she belonged to the smart, smart set
(Where reasons are far to seek)—
And the wedding and “crush” are remembered yet
As the “smart” things of the week.
Never an atom of love had she,
But they had a child somehow—
And Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Has the love of his first wife now.
Mad for “notice” and “talk” was she—
A butterfly blind as a bat—
She would flaunt for a season a divorcee,
Or divorce him, failing that.
He played his part and she held his heart
As light as her marriage vow—
But Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Has a hold on his first wife now.
She swore in Court what the world knew false,
With never a thought of shame—
She was free to flaunt to her heart’s content,
But she found it mighty tame:
The talk of the “town” for a week or two—
The gush, the smirk and the bow—
But Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is the God of his first wife now!
Her soul grew sick of the smart, smart set,
Or her conscience drove her wild—
Or she craved for “notice” and “talk” once more—
Or perhaps because of the child;
But they met at last and they met again—
No matter the where or how—
And Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is in love with his first wife now.
’Tis a “terrible life” for the second young wife,
But she married him too for “place”;
And she mustn’t forget that a smarting set
Belongs to the human race.
They say it’s fixed up in camera,
And, if that is the case, I’ll vow,
That Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Will marry his first wife now.
And there is a song of the English world
And a song for the English race:
The second husband and second wife
Must ever take second place.
So cherish the best that you find in the first,
And a margin of width allow:
The future looks after itself too well!
Look after the first ones now.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Song of the Stygian Naiades
Proserpine may pull her flowers,
Wet with dew or wet with tears,
Red with anger, pale with fears;
Is it any fault of ours,
If Pluto be an amorous king
And come home nightly, laden
Under his broad bat-wing
With a gentle earthly maiden?
Is it so, Wind, is it so?
All that I and you do know
Is that we saw fly and fix
'Mongst the flowers and reeds of Styx,
Yesterday,
Where the Furies made their hay
For a bed of tiger cubs,
A great fly of Beelzebub's,
The bee of hearts, which mortals name
Cupid, Love, and Fie for shame.
Proserpine may weep in rage,
But ere I and you have done
Kissing, bathing in the sun,
What I have in yonder cage,
She shall guess and ask in vain,
Bird or serpent, wild or tame;
But if Pluto does 't again,
It shall sing out loud his shame.
What hast caught then? What hast caught?
Nothing but a poet's thought,
Which so light did fall and fix
'Mongst the flowers and reeds of Styx,
Yesterday,
Where the Furies made their hay
For a bed of tiger cubs,
A great fly of Beelzebub's,
The bee of hearts, which mortals name
Cupid, Love, and Fie for shame.
poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
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The Pack-Saddle
A FAMOUS painter, jealous of his wife;
Whose charms he valued more than fame or life,
When going on a journey used his art,
To paint an ASS upon a certain part,
(Umbilical, 'tis said) and like a seal:
Impressive token, nothing thence to steal.
A BROTHER brush, enamoured of the dame;
Now took advantage, and declared his flame:
The Ass effaced, but God knows how 'twas done;
Another soon howe'er he had begun,
And finished well, upon the very spot;
In painting, few more praises ever got;
But want of recollection made him place
A saddle, where before he none could trace.
THE husband, when returned, desired to look
At what he drew, when leave he lately took.
Yes, see my dear, the wily wife replied,
The Ass is witness, faithful I abide.
Zounds! said the painter, when he got a sight,--
What!--you'd persuade me ev'ry thing is right?
I wish the witness you display so well,
And him who saddled it, were both in Hell.
poem by La Fontaine
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The Seahorse
The seahorse doesn’t do divorce:
It picks a spouse for life.
The wife’s the husband and, perforce,
The husband is the wife.
A husband, feeling rightly proud
(As husbands are, of course) ,
Will say of her who’s well endowed:
‘My wife’s hung like a horse.’
poem by South Westerner
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Husband and Wife
It's gonna be hard
To get back on track
After all that we've been through! !
Some say we're not meant to be together
Only if they only knew! !
We've practically been brought up together
And lived the same old life
I always knew you'd be my husband
I always dreamt i'd be your wife
So what's so different?
What has changed?
Have we grown apart?
I didn't think that could ever happen
I thought you owned my heart? ?
I wouldn't want to live without you
I couldn't even try
I thought about it late last night
And i cried my pillow dry! !
So don't think about this hastily
We need to talk it out
We vowed together, till death do us part
An i never had a doubt
Let's prove them wrong
We're meant to be
I love you more then life
You're made to be my husband
And i'm made to be your wife! ! ! !
poem by Lucy Vernezze
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My Wife’s Second Husband
THE WORLD goes round, old fellow,
And still I’m in the swim,
While my wife’s second husband
Is growing old and grim.
I meet him in the city—
It all seems very tame—
He glances at me sometimes
As if I were to blame.
Oh, my wife’s second husband
Was handsome, young and true;
He had his boyish visions
(I had my visions too).
He made a model lover—
The greenest in the game—
They say, when I was married
That I was just the same.
Though I am ten years older
My hair is dark to-day,
While my wife’s second husband
Is quickly growing grey.
I drank when first he knew me,
And he drank not at all;
I see that he, through drinking,
Is going to the wall.
A sweet ill-treated woman,
A drunken brute (Good Lord!)—
Ah, well, she got her freedom,
And he got his reward.
He’ll fight it out a season,
For Fate will not be forced,
But my wife’s second husband
Shall surely be divorced.
I sympathize, and wonder
What mutual friends would think
If my wife’s second husband
And I should have a drink.
And I a mere bystander—
It almost seems absurd—
Might lay prophetically
My hand on my wife’s third.
But my wife’s second husband
His sorrows shall forget,
We’ll clasp warm hands in friendship
And clink our glasses yet.
We’ll smoke cigars together,
In pure philosophy,
While calmly contemplating
The fate of number three.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Evil World
The evil world is like hell with human life,
So for almost every man beats his wife.
No place is worser than a life in a cell,
Except for eternity with demons in hell.
The evil world is filled with worthless life,
Yet life is sometimes worth living.
At night I lay in my bed
Wondering when is everyone dead.
Yet the evil world is like hell:
Evil conquers most human beings.
Without light or good the human race
Will seize to exist.
You must fulfill the life of man.
The evil world is like hell with human life.
poem by Tamika Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Marriages are made in Heaven
'Marriages are made in heaven'
so say people in India
a good marriage can your life lengthen
it can be your ultimate good karma.
My marriage was made in hell
Bad karma from beginning to end
Kept me for years in a prison cell
Finally, I don't have to pretend.
My marriage was made in hell
no love or affection, felt like a bad spell
A bad marriage can ruin your life
For so many years, I had no life.
The hell marriage is now over
Promise I won't do it again, ever
I'm finally free from the shackles
Thought I'd be happy, but I see no sparkles.
All I'm left now with is wrinkles
My life's hard and full of struggles
Still, I find my freedom wonderful
And I will soon start feeling worthful.
Written on April 23,2007
poem by CeCe Lamberts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death And Daphne
Death went upon a solemn day
At Pluto's hall his court to pay;
The phantom having humbly kiss'd
His grisly monarch's sooty fist,
Presented him the weekly bills
Of doctors, fevers, plagues, and pills.
Pluto, observing since the peace
The burial article decrease,
And vex'd to see affairs miscarry,
Declared in council Death must marry;
Vow'd he no longer could support
Old bachelors about his court;
The interest of his realm had need
That Death should get a numerous breed;
Young deathlings, who, by practice made
Proficient in their father's trade,
With colonies might stock around
His large dominions under ground.
A consult of coquettes below
Was call'd, to rig him out a beau;
From her own head Megaera takes
A periwig of twisted snakes:
Which in the nicest fashion curl'd,
(Like toupees of this upper world)
With flower of sulphur powder'd well,
That graceful on his shoulders fell;
An adder of the sable kind
In line direct hung down behind:
The owl, the raven, and the bat,
Clubb'd for a feather to his hat:
His coat, a usurer's velvet pall,
Bequeath'd to Pluto, corpse and all.
But, loath his person to expose
Bare, like a carcass pick'd by crows,
A lawyer, o'er his hands and face
Stuck artfully a parchment case.
No new flux'd rake show'd fairer skin;
Nor Phyllis after lying in.
With snuff was fill'd his ebon box,
Of shin-bones rotted by the pox.
Nine spirits of blaspheming fops,
With aconite anoint his chops;
And give him words of dreadful sounds,
G—d d—n his blood! and b—d and w—ds!'
Thus furnish'd out, he sent his train
To take a house in Warwick-lane:
The faculty, his humble friends,
A complimental message sends:
Their president in scarlet gown
Harangued, and welcomed him to town.
But Death had business to dispatch;
His mind was running on his match.
And hearing much of Daphne's fame,
His majesty of terrors came,
Fine as a colonel of the guards,
To visit where she sat at cards;
She, as he came into the room,
Thought him Adonis in his bloom.
And now her heart with pleasure jumps,
She scarce remembers what is trumps;
For such a shape of skin and bone
Was never seen except her own.
Charm'd with his eyes, and chin, and snout,
Her pocket-glass drew slily out;
And grew enamour'd with her phiz,
As just the counterpart of his.
She darted many a private glance,
And freely made the first advance;
Was of her beauty grown so vain,
She doubted not to win the swain;
Nothing she thought could sooner gain him,
Than with her wit to entertain him.
She ask'd about her friends below;
This meagre fop, that batter'd beau;
Whether some late departed toasts
Had got gallants among the ghosts?
If Chloe were a sharper still
As great as ever at quadrille?
(The ladies there must needs be rooks,
For cards, we know, are Pluto's books.)
If Florimel had found her love,
For whom she hang'd herself above?
How oft a-week was kept a ball
By Proserpine at Pluto's hall?
She fancied those Elysian shades
The sweetest place for masquerades;
How pleasant on the banks of Styx,
To troll it in a coach and six!
What pride a female heart inflames?
How endless are ambition's aims:
Cease, haughty nymph; the Fates decree
Death must not be a spouse for thee;
For, when by chance the meagre shade
Upon thy hand his finger laid,
Thy hand as dry and cold as lead,
His matrimonial spirit fled;
He felt about his heart a damp,
That quite extinguished Cupid's lamp:
Away the frighted spectre scuds,
And leaves my lady in the suds.
poem by Jonathan Swift
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cleopatra’s glory
Cleopatra was the queen of Egypt;
Cleopatra was the queen of beauty.
She came to the throne at her eighteen
The first century BC witnessed it.
To get back her Egypt from her brother,
She sought the hand of Julius Caesar,
The mighty one Rome had ever seen,
And set to sell her asset of beauty.
While in exile, she was able to reach
Caesar when he chanced to visit Egypt,
By getting her smuggled in to his room,
Rolled up in a carpet sent as a gift
Cleopatra emerging from the roll,
Caesar was stunned and fell for her in love.
He made her queen of Egypt in no time
And made her his consort with all respects.
Bound by her charm, grace and wit together,
Caesar clued to her and bore her a son.
He brought her home to be adored by Rome.
They led a life, each proud of the other.
The rise of Caesar was the cause of his fall.
His rise in power and love for Egypt
Were good enough for his conspirators
To rise and annihilate him unaware.
Cleopatra with her son fled to Egypt
And Mark Antony succeeded the throne.
No wonder, her beauty arrested him.
No wonder, his valour imprisioned her.
.The Rome emperor and the Egyptian queen
Loved, like of which no pair ever did.
The spring sprang, love spurted, and the passion flowed.
She was all and she was the world for him.
He took to Egypt and slept with the queen.
His rivals from Rome used his weakness
And invaded the Egyptian sea.
War broke; Antony woke and fought but lost.
The majestic queen became the captive.
False news spread that she was killed. Shocked,
Antony killed himself with the sword he wore.
She saught to burry him with state honour.
She heard she would be taken to Rome,
To be chained and drawn in Rome she adorned.
Romans took care that she killed not herself
And so kept her ss safe amidst water.
She had serpents brought in the fruit basket
And had them sting her to join her lover.
She loved Caesar and lived a royal wife.
She loved Antony and lived a loyal wife.
A woman can love as much in succession.
Widowhood is not an impediment
And the land after the harvest is not waste.
Cleopatra is a perfect example.
‘Age cannot wither her, not custom stale
Her infinite variety; other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies.’ Shakespeare
01.04.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Price Of Dead Love
His marriage is over but he has no tears
For the woman he was married to for just over two years
Though he miss his baby daughter when he comes home from work at night
In his marriage she was his one source of delight.
She is with his ex wife her mother who lives with her new man
And for him in her life his ex has only one plan
That he pay his alimony to her on Friday of every week
They no longer have common ground on which to speak.
On their wedding day he thought 'twould be for life
He was so in love with his beautiful wife
But just after two years of marriage love between them is dead
That the ways of love can be fickle no truer words said.
That his ex wife has left him for another he finds that as okay
But he misses his baby daughter when he comes home from work every day
That life has it's ups and downs it's always been this way
And the price of dead love it can be high to pay.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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