41 His classic studies made a little puzzle, Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, But never put on pantaloons or bodices; His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, And for their Aeneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, For Donna Inez dreaded the mythology.
42 Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him, Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample,
"As certain also of your own poets have said"— (Acts 17.28) Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece")— To Protus in his Tyranny: much health!
The light foot hears you and the brightness begins god-step at the margins of thought, quick adulterous tread at the heart. Who is it that goes there? Where I see your quick face notes of an old music pace the air, torso-reverberations of a Grecian lyre.
In Goya’s canvas Cupid and Psyche have a hurt voluptuous grace bruised by redemption. The copper light falling upon the brown boy’s slight body is carnal fate that sends the soul wailing
Take a statement, the same as yesterday’s dictation: Lately pain has been there waiting when I awake. Creative despair and failure have made their patient. Anyway, I’m afraid I have nothing to say. Those crazy phrases I desecrated the paper With against the grain ... Taste has turned away her face Temporarily, like a hasty, ill-paid waitress At table, barely capable but very vague.
Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons quelque chose, qui ne nous déplaît pas. ["In the hard times of our best friends we find something that doesn't displease us."] As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew From Nature, I believe 'em true: They argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault is in mankind.
I know that he told that I snared his soul With a snare which bled him to death. And all the men loved him, And most of the women pitied him. But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes, And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions. And the rhythm of Wordsworth's "Ode" runs in your ears, While he goes about from morning till night Repeating bits of that common thing; "Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" And then, suppose: You are a woman well endowed, And the only man with whom the law and morality Permit you to have the marital relation Is the very man that fills you with disgust
Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies. Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi. "O Cæsar, we who are about to die Salute you!" was the gladiators' cry In the arena, standing face to face With death and with the Roman populace.
Would that you were alive today, Catullus! Truth ’tis, there is a filthy skunk amongst us, A rank musk-idiot, the filthiest skunk, Of no least sorry use on earth, but only Fit in fancy to justify the outlay Of your most horrible vocabulary.
My Muse, all innocent as Eve in Eden, Would yet wear any skins of old pollution Rather than celebrate the name detested. Ev’n now might he rejoice at our attention, Guess'd he this little ode were aiming at him.
O precious codex, volume, tome, Book, writing, compilation, work, Attend the while I pen a pome, A jest, a jape, a quip, a quirk. For I would pen, engross, indite, Transcribe, set forth, compose, address, Record, submit–yea, even write An ode, an elegy to bless–
An Ode Attempted in English Sapphic When the fierce north wind with his airy forces Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury, And the red lightning with a storm of hail comes Rushing amain down,
The tea-kettle bubbled, the tea things were set, The candles were lighted, the ladies were met; The how d’ye’s were over, and entering bustle, The company seated, and silks ceased to rustle: The great Mrs. Consequence opened her fan, And thus the discourse in an instant began (All affected reserve and formality scorning): “I suppose you all saw in the paper this morning A volume of Poems advertised—’tis said They’re produced by the pen of a poor servant-maid.” “A servant write verses!” says Madam Du Bloom: “Pray what is the subject—a Mop, or a Broom?” “He, he, he,” says Miss Flounce: “I suppose we shall see An ode on a Dishclout—what else can it be?” Says Miss Coquettilla, “Why, ladies, so tart?
This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King, Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heav'n's high council-table, To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside, and here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
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