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I'm my own worst critic and I think everyone in the band is a perfectionist.

quote by Adam Jones
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An Essay on Criticism

Part I

INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,

[...] Read more

poem by Alexander Pope
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Strict It Gets

To challenge oneself,
Isn't fun that's done.
Because,
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.

To challenge oneself,
Isn't fun that's done.
Because,
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.

Stalking as a menace,
Looking for perfection in it.
And...
The critic vists.
And strict it gets.

Stalking as a menace,
Looking for perfection in it.
And...
The critic vists.
And strict it gets.

Picking seeking detail...
To prevail,
And...
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.
Detailed...
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.

Stalking as a menace,
Looking for perfection in it.
And...
The critic vists.
And strict it gets.

To challenge oneself,
Isn't fun that's done.
Because,
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.

Detailed!
The critic visits,
And strict it gets.

Detailed!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Rosciad

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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University Of Central Florida Volleyball

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[...] Read more

poem by Caasder Fronds
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Band On The Run

Stuck inside these four walls, sent inside forever,
Never seeing no one nice again like you,
Mama you, mama you.
If I ever get out of here,
Thought of giving it all away
To a registered charity.
All I need is a pint a day
If I ever get out of here.
Well, the rain exploded with a mighty crash as we fell into the sun,
And the first one said to the second one there I hope youre having fun.
Band on the run, band on the run.
And the jailer man and sailor sam were searching every one
For the band on the run, band on the run, band on the run, band on the run
Well, the undertaker drew a heavy sigh seeing no one else had come,
And a bell was ringing in the village square for the rabbits on the run.
Band on the run, band on the run.
And the jailer man and sailor sam, were searching every one
For the band on the run, band on the run, band on the run, band on the run
Well, the night was falling as the desert world began to settle down.
In the town theyre searching for us every where, but we never w ill be found.
Band on the run, band on the run
And the county judge, who held a grudge
Will search for evermore
For the band on the run, band on the run, band on the run, band on the run

song performed by Paul McCartney
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That Music In The Band (Lyric) :

They play that music in the band.
Them boys in the band.
That sweet playing, honky tonk music.
We hear in the band.

We hear that music in the band.
We hear that music in the band.
That sweet talking, honky tonk music.
We hear in the band.

It keeps us moving around.
They keep us moving to the sound.
Them boys in the band.
They play that music in the band.
That sweet playing, honky tonk music.
We hear in the band.

We hear that music in the band.
We hear that music in the band.
That sweet talking, honky talk music.
We hear in the band.

It keeps us jumping around.
They keep our feet off the ground.
Them boys in the band.
They play that music in the band.
That sweet playing, honky tonk music.
We hear in the band.

We hear that music in the band.
We hear that music in the band.
That sweet talking, honky tonk music.
We hear in the band....

Honky Tonk Song Lyric By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1989.2009..
ALL rights reserved..

poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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Using Boot Camp

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poem by Caasder Fronds
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For The Band

Now for the question
That just won't go away
"So what are we
Gonna do today?"
Cuz it seems like
For the last four years
We've had far much
Less stuff to say
I know I always come out
Like a pessimist
But there is always something else
That's leading up to this
Chris used to come
To all the local shows
Back when the days were simpler
Do you remember?
[Chorus]
Those days are gone but Chris is not
And now he's got big hair
And in fact along with that
He's developed a severe disliking for
FOR THE BAND! (For the Band x3)
And I don't like, how it seems like
Anything and everything is always
For the band
FOR THE BAND! (For the Band x3)
I don't like, how it seems like
Anything and everything is always
For the band
So don't think I'm going to
Sit and complain
When there's so many
Good things left to say
But watch closely
As I refrain
From forgetting who I am along the way
[Chorus]
Those days are gone but Chris is not
And now he's got big hair
And in fact along with that
He's developed a severe disliking for
FOR THE BAND! (For the Band x3)
And I don't like, how it seems like
Anything and everything is always
For the band
FOR THE BAND! (For the Band x3)
I don't like, how it seems like
Anything and everything is always
For the band
She sat me down and said to me

[...] Read more

song performed by Relient K
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The Wicket Cricket Critic

If the cricket critics' nagging
Merits stern official gagging
Which I doubt
How would critical ascetics,
With their prosy homiletics,
Shut it out?
And the question then arises:
If more cricketing surprises,
Such as bodyline, begin to threaten cricket,
And another stunt, when sprung,
Call for clicking of the tongue,
Should a cricket critic critically click it?

When the barrackers grow lyric
In a manner most satiric
And profane,
How, one ventures still to wonder,
May the clamor be kept under?
How restrain?
For one barbaric larrik-
In can do a lot of barrack-
In', and cause a lot of worry at the wicket.
But would sportsmen be abusing
Cricket canons in refusing
To supply that cricket critic with a ticket?

As a critic analytic
Of the cricket critics' critic
I would say,
When we criticise their cricket,
Then the players have to stick it,
Come what may.
No specific soporific
May be used; for it is diffic-
Ult to strike a critic partly paralytic.
So there's nothing gained in seeking,
As I know; and I am speaking
As a critic of the cricket critic's critic.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Third Book

'TO-DAY thou girdest up thy loins thyself,
And goest where thou wouldest: presently
Others shall gird thee,' said the Lord, 'to go
Where thou would'st not.' He spoke to Peter thus,
To signify the death which he should die
When crucified head downwards.
If He spoke
To Peter then, He speaks to us the same;
The word suits many different martyrdoms,
And signifies a multiform of death,
Although we scarcely die apostles, we,
And have mislaid the keys of heaven and earth.

For tis not in mere death that men die most;
And, after our first girding of the loins
In youth's fine linen and fair broidery,
To run up hill and meet the rising sun,
We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool,
While others gird us with the violent bands
Of social figments, feints, and formalisms,
Reversing our straight nature, lifting up
Our base needs, keeping down our lofty thoughts,
Head downward on the cross-sticks of the world.
Yet He can pluck us from the shameful cross.
God, set our feet low and our forehead high,
And show us how a man was made to walk!

Leave the lamp, Susan, and go up to bed.
The room does very well; I have to write
Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get away;
Your steps, for ever buzzing in the room,
Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters! throw them down
At once, as I must have them, to be sure,
Whether I bid you never bring me such
At such an hour, or bid you. No excuse.
You choose to bring them, as I choose perhaps
To throw them in the fire. Now, get to bed,
And dream, if possible, I am not cross.

Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,–
A mere, mere woman,–a mere flaccid nerve,-
A kerchief left out all night in the rain,
Turned soft so,–overtasked and overstrained
And overlived in this close London life!
And yet I should be stronger.
Never burn
Your letters, poor Aurora! for they stare
With red seals from the table, saying each,
'Here's something that you know not.' Out alas,
'Tis scarcely that the world's more good and wise

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Beowulf

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
awing the earls. Since erst he lay
friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
till before him the folk, both far and near,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
gave him gifts: a good king he!
To him an heir was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent
to favor the folk, feeling their woe
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader
so long a while; the Lord endowed him,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.
Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him,
son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well
with his father's friends, by fee and gift,
that to aid him, aged, in after days,
come warriors willing, should war draw nigh,
liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds
shall an earl have honor in every clan.
Forth he fared at the fated moment,
sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.
Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,
while wielded words the winsome Scyld,
the leader beloved who long had ruled….
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,
ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:
there laid they down their darling lord
on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,
by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure
fetched from far was freighted with him.
No ship have I known so nobly dight
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,
with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay
a heaped hoard that hence should go
far o'er the flood with him floating away.
No less these loaded the lordly gifts,
thanes' huge treasure, than those had done
who in former time forth had sent him
sole on the seas, a suckling child.
High o'er his head they hoist the standard,
a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,
gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,
mournful their mood. No man is able

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Simple

Weve got it simple
Cause weve got a band
And weve got cymbals in the band
Weve got it simple
Cause weve got a band
And weve got cymbals in the band
What is a band without cymbals?
Ooh ooh cymbals are grand
Weve got a saxophone
Cause weve got a band
And weve got a saxophone in the band
Weve got a saxophone
Cause weve got a band
And weve got saxophone in the band
What is a band without saxophone
Ooh ooh saxophone is grand
Cymbals and saxophones
Saxophones and cymbals (2x)
Weve got be-bop
Cause weve got a band
And we play be-bop in the band
Weve got skyscrapers
And it seems a pretty tune
Every band needs skyscrapers too
What is a band without skyscrapers
Ooh ooh skyscrapers is grand
Sim-bop & be-bophone
Sky-balls & sax-scraper

song performed by Phish
Added by Lucian Velea
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E: Simple

We've got it simple
Cause we've got a band
And we've got cymbals in the band
We've got it simple
Cause we've got a band
And we've got cymbals in the band
What is a band without cymbals?
Ooh ooh cymbals are grand
We've got a saxophone
Cause we've got a band
And we've got a saxophone in the band
We've got a saxophone
Cause we've got a band
And we've got saxophone in the band
What is a band without saxophone
Ooh ooh saxophone is grand
Cymbals and saxophones
Saxophones and cymbals (2x)
We've got Be-bop
Cause we've got a band
And we play Be-bop in the band
We've got skyscrapers
And it seems a pretty tune
Every band needs skyscrapers too
What is a band without skyscrapers
Ooh ooh skyscrapers is grand
Sim-Bop & Be-Bophone
Sky-Balls & Sax-Scraper

song performed by Phish
Added by Lucian Velea
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English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A Satire

'I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers'~Shakespeare

'Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too,'~Pope.

Still must I hear? -- shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse?
Prepare for rhyme -- I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose,
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride,
The lover's solace, and the author's pride.
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free;
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar today, no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
Inspires -- our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime;
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
And weigh their justice in a golden scale;
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.

Such is the force of wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Boys In The Band

(brown)
With mr soul or king creole
You gotta go with the man in the band
Hell be your guide
Singing la la la la
But what makes mr politic
A lot of words another trick
Turn peace into war
Singing ha ha ha ha
Ooh its not the way we want it
Not the way at all
Not the way to change our minds
Our backs up against the wall
The boys in the band all live in harmony
For lifes a poem
And we can make it rhyme
The boys in the band all live in harmony
Lets get it together before we
Go down, down, down
I dont want to theorise it
Just hope people realise
The simple melody can free your soul
And let you be man what you are
And fly la la la
But every back street slum where
Pushers push and hookers hook
Just wont set you free with ha ha ha ha
Oooh its not the way we want it
Not the way at all
Not the way to change our minds
Our backs up against the wall
The boys in the band all live in harmony
For lifes a poem
And we can make it rhyme
The boys in the band all live in harmony
Lets get it together before we
Go down, down, down
Break
The boys in the band all live in harmony
The boys in the band all live in harmony
Oooh its not the way we want it
Not the way at all
Not the way to change our minds
Our backs up against the wall
The boys in the band all live in harmony
The boys in the band all live in harmony
The boys in the band all live in harmony
The boys in the band all live in harmony
The boys in the band all live in harmony
The boys in the band all live in harmony

song performed by Hollies
Added by Lucian Velea
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Join Together

When you here this sound a-comin,
Hear the drummers drumming,
I want you to join together with the band,
We dont move in any ticular direction,
And we dont make no collections,
I want you to join together with the band.
Do you really think I care,
What you read or what you wear,
I want you to join together with the band,
Theres a million ways to laugh,
And every ones a path,
Come on and join together with the band.
Everybody join together, I want you to join together,
Come on and join together with the band,
We need you to join together, come on and join together,
Come on and join together with the band.
You dont have to play,
You can follow or lead the way,
I want you to join together with the band,
We dont know where were going,
But the seasons right for knowing,
I want you to join together with the band.
Its the singer not the song,
That makes the music move along,
I want you to join together with the band,
This is the biggest band youll find,
Its as deep as it is wide,
Come on and join together with the band,
Hey hey hey hey hey hey, well everybody come on.
Come on and join, join together with the band,
We need you to join together, everybody come on,
Hey hey hey, join together with the band.

song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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Steamrock Fever

Live version
--------------
Wed like to introduce tonight the kings of a brand new style
Theyre hungry to play
Wed like to introduce tonight the new heavy steamrock style
Quite different and strange
Alright, how do you feel tonight
Get up to see and cry the name of the band
(steamrock band, steamrock band)
Steam right with hands and feet tonight
Get up to see and cry, and they will begin
Here they are
Steamrock fever, screaming rock believers
Steamrock fever in l.a.
Steamrock fever, screaming rock believers
Steamrock fever in l.a.
Alright, how do you feel tonight
Get up to see and cry the name of the band
(steamrock band, steamrock band)
Steam right with hands and feet tonight
Get up to see and cry, and they will begin
Here they are
Steamrock fever, screaming rock believers
Steamrock fever in l.a.
Steamrock fever, screaming rock believers
Steamrock fever in l.a.
Steamrock fever, screaming rock believers
Steamrock fever in l.a.
Steamrock fever, screaming rock believers
Steamrock fever in l.a.
Another version
-----------------
Music :rudolf schenker
Lyrics:klaus meine
Wed like to introduce tonight
The kings of a brand new style
Theyre hungry to play
Wed like to introduce tonight
The new heavy steamrock style
Theyre ready to play
All right, how do you feel tonight
Get out to see them write
The name of their band
(steamrock band, steamrock band)
Steam bright, work has a beat tonight
Get out to see them fry
And they will begin
Here they are
Steamrock fever thrilling rock believers
Steamrock fever in l.a.

[...] Read more

song performed by Scorpions
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The Vision of Don Roderick

Introduction.

I.
Lives there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire
May rise distinguished o'er the din of war;
Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre
Who sung beleaguered Ilion's evil star?
Such, WELLINGTON, might reach thee from afar,
Wafting its descant wide o'er Ocean's range;
Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood could mar,
All, as it swelled 'twixt each loud trumpet-change,
That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge!

II.
Yes! such a strain, with all o'er-pouring measure,
Might melodise with each tumultuous sound
Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure,
That rings Mondego's ravaged shores around;
The thundering cry of hosts with conquest crowned,
The female shriek, the ruined peasant's moan,
The shout of captives from their chains unbound,
The foiled oppressor's deep and sullen groan,
A Nation's choral hymn, for tyranny o'erthrown.

III.
But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day
Skilled but to imitate an elder page,
Timid and raptureless, can we repay
The debt thou claim'st in this exhausted age?
Thou givest our lyres a theme, that might engage
Those that could send thy name o'er sea and land,
While sea and land shall last; for Homer's rage
A theme; a theme for Milton's mighty hand -
How much unmeet for us, a faint degenerate band!

IV.
Ye mountains stern! within whose rugged breast
The friends of Scottish freedom found repose;
Ye torrents! whose hoarse sounds have soothed their rest,
Returning from the field of vanquished foes;
Say, have ye lost each wild majestic close
That erst the choir of Bards or Druids flung,
What time their hymn of victory arose,
And Cattraeth's glens with voice of triumph rung,
And mystic Merlin harped, and grey-haired Llywarch sung?

V.
Oh! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain,
As sure your changeful gales seem oft to say,
When sweeping wild and sinking soft again,

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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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V. Count Guido Franceschini

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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