God! How I hate you, you young cheerful men, Whose pious poetry blossoms on your graves
As soon as you are in them, nurtured up By the salt of your corruption, and the tears Of mothers, local vicars, college deans, And flanked by prefaces and photographs From all you minor poet friends—the fools— Who paint their sentimental elegies
It is her right, to bind with warmest ties, The lordly spirit of aspiring man, Making his home an earthly paradise, Rich in all joys allotted to life’s span; Twining around each fibre of his heart, With all the gentle influence of love’s might, Seeking no joy wherein he has no part – This is undoubtedly – a woman’s right!
It is her right to teach the infant mind, Training it ever upward in its course, To root out evil passions that would bind The upward current of his reason’s force; To lead the erring spirit gently back, When it has sunk in gloom of deepest night;
When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
Act 2, Scene 2 Clindor, a young picaresque hero, has been living by his wits in Paris, but has now drifted to Bordeaux, to become the valet of a braggart bravo named Matamore. He is chiefly employed as a go-between, carrying Matamore's amorous messages to the beautiful Isabelle—who only suffers the master because she is in love with the messenger. clindor Sir, why so restless? Is there any need, With all your fame, for one more glorious deed? Have you not slain enough bold foes by now,
O Hesper-Phosphor, far away Shining, the first, the last white star, Hear’st thou the strange, the ghostly cry, That moan of an ancient agony From purple forest to golden sky Shivering over the breathless bay? It is not the wind that wakes with the day; For see, the gulls that wheel and call,
"With sacrifice before the rising morn Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required: Celestial pity I again implore;— Restore him to my sight—great Jove, restore!"
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, Her countenance brightens—and her eye expands; Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; As she expects the issue in repose.
Why feel guilty because the death of a lover causes lust? It is only an animal urge to perpetuate the species, but if I do not inhibit my imagination and dreams I can see your skull smiling up at me from underground and your bones loosely arranged in the missionary position. This is not an incapacitating vision except at night, and not a will of constancy, nor an irrevocable trust, so I take on a woman with a mouth like an open wound.
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