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American Sniper [I Need You to Be Human Again]

Cast: Bradley Cooper, Sienna Miller

clip from American Sniper, directed by Clint Eastwood, screenplay, inspired by Chris Kyle (2014)
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A Pleasant Ballad Of King Henry II. And The Miller Of Mansfield

Part the First.

Henry, our royall kind, would ride a hunting
To the greene forest so pleasant and faire;
To see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping,
Unto merry Sherwood his nobles repaire:
Hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd
For the game, in the same, with good regard.

All a long summers day rode the king pleasantlye,
With all his princes and nobles eche one;
Chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye,
Till the dark evening forc'd all to turne home.
Then at last, riding fast, he had lost quite
All his lords in the wood, late in the night.

Wandering thus wearilye, all alone, up and downe,
With a rude miller he mett at the last;
Asking the ready way unto faire Nottingham,
'Sir,' quoth the miller, 'I meane not to jest,
Yet I thinke, what I thinke, sooth for to say;
You doe not lightlye ride out of your way.'

'Why, what dost thou tihnk of me,' quoth our king merrily,
'Passing thy judgement upon me so briefe?'
'Good faith,' sayd the miller, 'I meane not to flatter thee,
I guess thee to bee but some gentleman thiefe;
Stand thee backe, in the darke; light not adowne,
Lest that I presently crack thy knaves crowne.'

'Thou dost abuse me much,' quoth the king, 'saying thus;
I am a gentleman; lodging I lacke.'
'Thou hast not,' quoth th' miller, 'one groat in thy purse;
All thy inheritance hanges on thy backe.'
'I have gold to discharge all that I call;
If it be forty pence, I will pay all.'

'If thou beest a true man,' then quoth the miller,
'I sweare by my toll-dish, I'll lodge thee all night.'
'Here's my hand,' quoth the king, 'that was I ever.'
'Nay, soft,' quoth the miller, 'thou may'st be a sprite.
Better I'll know thee, ere hands we will shake;
With none but honest men hands will I take.'

Thus they went all along unto the millers house,
Where they were seething of puddings and souse;
The miller first enter'd in, after him went the king;
Never came hee in soe smoakye a house.
'Now,' quoth hee, 'let me see here what you are.'
Quoth our king, 'Looke your fill, and do not spare.'

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Bradley The Kind Heart

Bradley The Kind Heart

I remember the day,
I was sending off "Unfreezing Prince Emeray".
I was at Kinkos and approached Bradley with my book,
I asked him for his opinion after he had a look.
Funny Bradley has one of my character's names,
I met his mother Jean and my life was never the same.
I helped Bradley's mother at the end of her time here,
She was a great storyteller, artist, inventor and very sincere.
Jean said she loved Bradley and me and then she passed on,
I bought Shieka pup for Laddy so he would'nt be withdrawn.
Now Bradley helped me out with Shieka and my Acura car,
I drove Black Cherry for miles very far.
He was there when I bought Black Pearl,
she is my new ride that was a miracle.
Bradley I have Sam the dog from the carnival,
She helped Shieka and Shiekee bond real well.
Bradley was there when "Unfreezing Prince Emeray"
was mailed back in soft cover.
Since then I've put Jean in my Butterfly books
as the Butterfly Queen Fairy Godmother.
Thank you Bradley, for you have a kind heart,
your generosity helped me get a new start

Written by Suzae Chevalier on October 11,2011

poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Bradley The Kind Heart

I remember the day,
I was sending off “Unfreezing Prince Emeray”.
I was at Kinkos and approached Bradley with my book,
I asked him for his opinion after he had a look.
Funny Bradley has one of my character’s names,
I met his mother Jean and my life was never the same.
I helped Bradley’s mother at the end of her time here,
She was a great storyteller, artist, inventor and very sincere.
Jean said she loved Bradley and me and then she passed on,
I bought Shieka pup for Laddy so he would'nt be withdrawn.
Now Bradley helped me out with Shieka and my Acura car,
I drove Black Cherry for miles very far.
He was there when I bought Black Pearl,
she is my new ride that was a miracle.
Bradley I have Sam the dog from the carnival,
She helped Shieka and Shiekee bond real well.
Bradley was there when “Unfreezing Prince Emeray”
was mailed back in soft cover.
Since then I’ve put Jean in my Butterfly books
as the Butterfly Queen Fairy Godmother.
Thank you Bradley, for you have a kind heart,
your generosity helped me get a new start.

poem by Christina Sunrise
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The Death of Yazdagird

From the Shahnameh
There was a paladin, a Turk by race,
A man of influence and named Bizhan;
He dwelt within the coasts of Samarkand
Where he had many kin. Ill-starred Mahwi,
Becoming self-assertive, wrote to him:-
'Thou prosperous scion of the paladins!
A strife hath risen that will bring thee profit:
The Sháh is of all places here at Marv
And with no troops! His head and crown and state,
Wealth, throne, and host, are thine if thou wilt come.
Recall the vengeance owing to thy sires,
And give this unjust race its just reward.'

Bizhan, considering the letter, saw
That insolent Mahwi would win the world,
Then spake thus to his minister: 'Thou chief
Of upright men! what sayest thou to this?
If I lead forth a host to aid Mahwi
'Twill be my ruin here.'

The minister
Replied: 'O lion-hearted warrior!
'Twere shame to help Mahwi and then withdraw.
Command Barsám to set forth with a host
To aid upon this scene of strife. The sage
Will term thee daft to go and fight in person
At the insistence of this man of Súr.'

Bizhan replied: ''Tis well, I will not go
Myself.'

He therefore bade Barsám to lead
Ten thousand valiant cavaliers and swordsmen
To Marv with all the implements of war
If haply he might take the Sháh. That host
Went like a flying pheasant from Bukhárá
To Marv within one week. One night at cock-crow
The sound of tymbals went up from the plain.
How could the king of kings suspect Mahwi
Of Súr to be his enemy? Shouts rose.
A cavalier reached Yazdagird at dawn
To say: 'Mahwi said thus: 'A host of Turks
Hath come. What is the bidding of the Sháh?
The Khán and the Faghfúr of Chin command:
Earth is not able to support their host!''

The Sháh wroth donned his mail. The armies ranged.
He formed his troops to right and left, and all
Advanced to battle. Spear in hand he held

[...] Read more

poem by Hakim Abu'l-Qasim Ferdowsi Tusi Firdowsi
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Jealousy

'The Roman Catholic Church has never forgiven us for converting Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from his Agnosticism; and when Men like Mr. Dennis Bradley can no longer be Content with the old Faith, a Spirit of Jealousy is naturally roused.'
-A Spiritualist Paper

She sat upon her Seven Hills
She rent the scarlet robes about her,
Nor yet in her two thousand years
Had ever grieved that men should doubt her;
But what new horror shakes the mind
Making her moan and mutter madly;
Lo! Rome's high heart is broken at last
Her foes have borrowed Dennis Bradley.

If she must lean on lesser props
Of earthly fame or ancient art,
Make shift with Raphael and Racine
Put up with Dante and Descartes,
Not wholly can she mask her grief
But touch the wound and murmur sadly,
'These lesser things are theirs to love
Who lose the love of Mr. Bradley.'

She saw great Origen depart
And Photius rend the world asunder,
Her cry to all the East rolled back
In Islam its ironic thunder,
She lost Jerusalem and the North
Accepting these arrangements gladly
Until it came to be a case
Of Conan Doyle v. Dennis Bradley.

O fond and foolish hopes that still
In broken hearts unbroken burn,
What if, grown weary of new ways,
The precious wanderer should return
The Trumpet whose uncertain sound
Has just been cracking rather badly
May yet within her courts remain
His Trumpet-blown by Dennis Bradley.

His and her Trumpet blown before
The battle where the good cause wins
Louder than all the Irish harps
Or the Italian violins;
When armed and mounted like St. Joan
She meets the mad world riding madly
Under the Oriflamme of old
Crying, 'Mont-joie St. Dennis Bradley!'

But in this hour she sorrows still,
Though all anew the generations

[...] Read more

poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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The Page And The Miller's Daughter

PAGE.

WHERE goest thou? Where?
Miller's daughter so fair!

Thy name, pray?--

MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

'Tis Lizzy.

PAGE.
Where goest thou? Where?
With the rake in thy hand?

MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
Father's meadows and land

To visit, I'm busy.

PAGE.
Dost go there alone?

MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
By this rake, sir, 'tis shown

That we're making the hay;
And the pears ripen fast
In the garden at last,

So I'll pick them to-day.

PAGE.
Is't a silent thicket I yonder view?

MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
Oh, yes! there are two;
There's one on each side.

PAGE.
I'll follow thee soon;
When the sun burns at noon
We'll go there, o'urselves from his rays to hide,
And then in some glade all-verdant and deep--

MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
Why, people would say--

PAGE.
Within mine arms thou gently wilt sleep.

[...] Read more

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Jolly Miller

It was a Jolly Miller lived on the River Dee;
He looked upon his piller, and there he found a flea:
'O Mr. Flea! you have bit' me,
And you shall shorely die!'
So he scrunched his bones against the stones--
And there he let him lie!

Twas then the Jolly Miller he laughed and told his wife,
And _she_ laughed fit to kill her, and dropped her carvin'-knife!--
'O Mr. Flea!' 'Ho-ho!' 'Tee-hee!'
They _both_ laughed fit to kill,
Until the sound did almost drownd
The rumble of the mill!

_'Laugh on, my Jolly Miller! and Missus Miller, too!--
But there's a weeping-willer will soon wave over you!'_
The voice was all so awful small--
So very small and slim!--
He durst' infer that it was her,
Ner her infer 'twas him!

That night the Jolly Miller, says he, 'It's Wifey dear,
That cat o' yourn, I'd kill her!--her actions is so queer,--
She rubbin' 'ginst the grindstone-legs,
And yowlin' at the sky--
And I 'low the moon haint greener
Than the yaller of her eye!'

And as the Jolly Miller went chuckle-un to bed,
Was _Somepin_ jerked his piller from underneath his head!
'O Wife,' says he, on-easi-lee,
'Fetch here that lantern there!'
But _Somepin_ moans in thunder tones,
'_You tetch it ef you dare!_'

'Twas then the Jolly Miller he trimbled and he quailed--
And his wife choked until her breath come back, 'n' she _wailed!_
And '_O!'_ cried she, 'it is _the Flea_,
All white and pale and wann--
He's got you in his clutches, and
_He's bigger than a man!_'

'_Ho! ho! my Jolly Miller,' (fer 'twas the Flea, fer shore!)
'I reckon you'll not rack my bones ner scrunch 'em any more!_'
And then _the Ghost_ he grabbed him clos't,
With many a ghastly smile,
And from the doorstep stooped and hopped
About four hundred mile!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Hangman with the teacher

R_ T_ _E_

It was a Tuesday painted Friday
by wanton act of tragedy
When punctual Mr. Miller, laconically sat
Looking on his wards he silently wept
He sighed with contempt
of a lifetime of regret
Meditating sorrow in his morning Earl Grey tea
Looking through the window
at tears of rain rang from the pang
And the sky was mourning grey

A middle age man he was tall and rather fair
Angular face, with drawn pink cheeks
The formal decorum of accountant attire
Wore a striped shirt with a founded pocket pen
An emerald striped tie gave his statues duke
Aristocratic gallantry withered by the chords of life storms.
Eyes pinpoints of coal, recoiled stygian streams
Sullen geniality masquerading animosity
A follower of Minerva measured is life in coffee spoons

We converged to our desks, like sheep to the cull
Meager creatures with desolate manners
Little Nero’s with so pause for concern
Sessions began with an alternative directive
He stood as Napoleen as waterloo fell
Resolute as the earth sunk around his crown
His eyes beat malice, but his mouth cracked
“No math today, or gym time fun”
, he perched his lips, and smiling wide
‘Were going to play a spelling game”

He took the chalk, and drew seven lines
Turned on us with malevolent surprise
“It starts with “r and ends in “D”
One more hint, Ill consent to you
there are in place three vowels
Guess the word you get a prize”
He moved with the passion of a drunken lynx,

[...] Read more

poem by Kevin Patrick
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A Miller, His Son, And Their Ass

THO' to Antiquity the Praise we yield
Of pleasing Arts; and Fable's earli'st Field
Own to be fruitful Greece; yet not so clean
Those Ears were reap'd, but still there's some to glean;
And from the Lands of vast Invention come
Daily new Authors, with Discov'ries home.

This curious Piece, which I shall now impart,
Fell from Malherbe, a Master in his Art,
To Racan, fill'd with like poetick Fire,
Both tuneful Servants of Apollo's Choir:
Rivals and Heirs to the Horatian Lyre:
Who meeting him, one Day, free and alone,
(For still their Thoughts were to each other known)
Thus ask'd his Aid–Some useful Counsel give,
Thou who, by living long, hast learnt to live;
Whose Observation nothing can escape;
Tell me, how I my course of Life shall shape:
To something I wou'd fix ere't be too late.
You know my Birth, my Talents, my Estate:
Shall I with these content, all Search resign,
And to the Country my Desires confine?
Or in the Court, or Camp, advancement gain?
The World's a mixture of Delight and Pain:
Tho' rough it seems, there's Pleasure in the Wars,
And Hymen's Joys are not without their Cares.
I need not ask, to what my Genius tends,
But wou'd content the World, the Court, my Friends.

Please all the World (in haste) Malherbe replies?
How vain th' Attempt will prove in him, that tries,
Learn from a Fable, I have somewhere found,
Before I answer all that you propound.

A Miller and his Son (the Father old,
The Boy about some fifteen Years had told)
Designed their Ass to sell, and for the Fair,
Some distance off, accordingly prepare.
But lest she in the walk should lose her Flesh,
And not appear, for Sale, so full and fresh,
Her Feet together ty'd; between them two
They heav'd her up; and on the Rusticks go:
Till those, who met them bearing thus the Ass,
Cry'd, Are these Fools about to act a Farce?
Surely the Beast (howe'er it seem to be)
Is not the greatest Ass of all the Three.
The Miller in their Mirth his Folly finds,
And down he sets her, and again unbinds;

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Doin' Time

You know whats taking place?
Check this out
This is sublime
I'm mad lion for the borderline
This is sublime
I'm mad lion for the borderline hey
Summertime and the livin's easy
Bradley's on the microphone with ras-mg
All the people in the dance will agree that we're well qualified to
Represent
The lbc
Me and louie we're gunna run to the party and dance till the rhythm it
Gets
Harder
Ba da ba bye bye
Ba da ba bye bye
Me and my girl we got this relationship
I love her so bad but she treats me like shhh
All locked down like a penitentiary
She spreads her lovin all over and when she gets home there's none left
For me
Summertime and the livin's easy
Bradley's on the microphone with ras-mg
All the people in the dance will agree that we're well qualified to
Represent
The lbc
Me and louie we're gunna run to the party and dance till the rhythm it
Gets
Harder
When the music hits you shall feel no pain
Take a spliff of sensemillia make it run through your brain
Me and sublime we sound 1 - the same
Two lions into the jungle that they just can't tame
So bring all your people
And bring it
You better take your lovin and fling it
You better bring your lovin home
Come and love your maximo
24/7 say me can't sink so low
Ba da ba bye bye
Ba da ba bye bye
Ba da ba bye bye
Ba da ba bye bye
So take this veil from off my eyes
My burning sun will some day rise
And what am i gunna be doin for a wife
I said i'm gunna play with myself
Show them now we've come off the shelf
Summertime and the livin's easy
Bradley's on the microphone with ras-mg

[...] Read more

song performed by Sublime
Added by Lucian Velea
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American Sniper

Cast: Bradley Cooper, Sienna Miller, Jake McDorman, Brian Hallisay, Kyle Gallner, Luke Grimes, Sam Jaeger, Keir O'Donnell

trailer for American Sniper, directed by Clint Eastwood, screenplay by Jason Dean Hall, inspired by Chris Kyle (2014)
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American Sniper [trailer 2]

Cast: Bradley Cooper, Sienna Miller, Jake McDorman, Brian Hallisay, Kyle Gallner, Luke Grimes, Sam Jaeger, Keir O'Donnell

trailer for American Sniper, directed by Clint Eastwood, screenplay by Jason Dean Hall, inspired by Chris Kyle (2014)
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Burnt

Cast: Bradley Cooper, Sienna Miller, Omar Sy, Alicia Vikander, Lily James, Uma Thurman, Emma Thompson, Daniel Bruhl

trailer for Burnt, directed by John Wells, screenplay by Steven Knight, inspired by Michael Kalesniko (2015)
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Burnt [trailer 2]

Cast: Bradley Cooper, Sienna Miller, Omar Sy, Alicia Vikander, Lily James, Uma Thurman, Emma Thompson, Daniel Bruhl

trailer for Burnt, directed by John Wells, screenplay by Steven Knight, inspired by Michael Kalesniko (2015)
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The Parish Register - Part I: Baptisms

The year revolves, and I again explore
The simple Annals of my Parish poor;
What Infant-members in my flock appear,
What Pairs I bless'd in the departed year;
And who, of Old or Young, or Nymphs or Swains,
Are lost to Life, its pleasures and its pains.
No Muse I ask, before my view to bring
The humble actions of the swains I sing. -
How pass'd the youthful, how the old their days;
Who sank in sloth, and who aspired to praise;
Their tempers, manners, morals, customs, arts,
What parts they had, and how they 'mploy'd their

parts;
By what elated, soothed, seduced, depress'd,
Full well I know-these Records give the rest.
Is there a place, save one the poet sees,
A land of love, of liberty, and ease;
Where labour wearies not, nor cares suppress
Th' eternal flow of rustic happiness;
Where no proud mansion frowns in awful state,
Or keeps the sunshine from the cottage-gate;
Where young and old, intent on pleasure, throng,
And half man's life is holiday and song?
Vain search for scenes like these! no view appears,
By sighs unruffled or unstain'd by tears;
Since vice the world subdued and waters drown'd,
Auburn and Eden can no more be found.
Hence good and evil mixed, but man has skill
And power to part them, when he feels the will!
Toil, care, and patience bless th' abstemious few,
Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue.
Behold the Cot! where thrives th' industrious

swain,
Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain;
Screen'd from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray
Smiles on the window and prolongs the day;
Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches stop,
And turn their blossoms to the casement's top:
All need requires is in that cot contain'd,
And much that taste untaught and unrestrain'd
Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace,
In one gay picture, all the royal race;
Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings;
The print that shows them and the verse that sings.
Here the last Louis on his throne is seen,
And there he stands imprison'd, and his Queen;
To these the mother takes her child, and shows
What grateful duty to his God he owes;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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The Canterbury Tales; The Milleres Tale

PROLOGUE TO THE MILLERES TALE

Heere folwen the wordes bitwene the Hoost and the Millere

Whan that the Knyght had thus his tale ytoold,
In al the route ne was ther yong ne oold

That he ne seyde it was a noble storie,
And worthy for to drawen to memorie;
And namely the gentils everichon.
Oure Hooste lough, and swoor, 'So moot I gon,
This gooth aright, unbokeled is the male,

Lat se now who shal telle another tale,
For trewely the game is wel bigonne.
Now telleth on, sir Monk, if that ye konne
Somwhat to quite with the Knyghtes tale.'
The Miller that for-dronken was al pale,

So that unnethe upon his hors he sat,
He nolde avalen neither hood ne hat,
Ne abyde no man for his curteisie,
But in Pilates voys he gan to crie,
And swoor by armes and by blood and bones,

'I kan a noble tale for the nones,
With which I wol now quite the Knyghtes tale.'
Oure Hooste saugh that he was dronke of ale,
And seyde, 'Abyd, Robyn, my leeve brother,
Som bettre man shal telle us first another,

Abyd, and lat us werken thriftily.'
'By Goddes soule,' quod he, 'that wol nat I,
For I wol speke, or elles go my wey.'
Oure Hoost answerde, 'Tel on, a devele wey!
Thou art a fool, thy wit is overcome!

'Now herkneth,' quod the Miller, 'alle and some,
But first I make a protestacioun
That I am dronke, I knowe it by my soun;
And therfore, if that I mysspeke or seye,
Wyte it the ale of Southwerk I you preye.

For I wol telle a legende and a lyf
Bothe of a carpenter and of his wyf,
How that a clerk hath set the wrightes cappe.'
The Rev answerde and seyde, 'Stynt thy clappe,
Lat be thy lewed dronken harlotrye,

It is a synne and eek a greet folye

[...] Read more

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Cooper

Cooper went out late last night
I heard the slam from her door
Foggy ways, november daze
All the white wolves were smiling
Cooper went out walkin the clouds
She left everything in a mess
shut your mouth when you talk to me
Her words were always so small
And theres a sound from the telephone
When can I say shes coming home?
Leave me the number youre dialing from
And may I ask whos calling?
May I ask whos calling?
Cooper went out, 3 oclock sharp
I heard the bells from the church
Someone said they saw a car
Picking her up by the stations
Cooper went out and thats all there is
Im just no one from next door
Everything will be alright
When all the flowers have cried
Then theres a voice on the telephone
When can I say shes coming home?
Leave me the number youre dialing from
And may I ask whos callin? (whos calling? )
May I ask whos calling? (whos calling? )
May I ask whos calling?

song performed by Roxette
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Fable For Critics

Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.'

Now, Daphne-before she was happily treeified-
Over all other blossoms the lily had deified,
And when she expected the god on a visit
('Twas before he had made his intentions explicit),
Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care,
To look as if artlessly twined in her hair,
Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses,
Like the day breaking through, the long night of her tresses;
So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible,
Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-table
(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable,
Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Cristabel),-
He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it,
As I shall at the--, when they cut up my book in it.

Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning,
I've got back at last to my story's beginning:
Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress,
As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,

[...] Read more

poem by James Russell Lowell
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What Had He Done?

I saw the farmer, when the day was done,
And the proud sun had sought his crimson bed,
And the mild stars came forward one by one-
I saw the sturdy farmer, and I said:
'What have you done to-day,
O farmer! say?'

'Oh! I have sown the wheat in yonder field,
And pruned my orchard to increase its yield,
And turned the furrow for a patch of corn:
This have I done, with other things, since morn.'

I saw the blacksmith in his smithy-door,
When day had vanished and the west grew red,
And all the busy noise and strife were o'er-
I saw the kingly blacksmith, and I said:
'What have you done to-day,
O blacksmith! say?

'Oh! I have made two plough-shares all complete,
And nailed the shoes on many horses' feet;
And-O my friend! I cannot tell you half,'
The man of muscle answered, with a laugh.

I saw the miller, when the day had gone,
And all the sunlight from the hills had fled,
And tender shadows crept across the lawn-
I saw the trusty miller, and I said:
'What have you done to-day,
O miller gray?'

'Oh! I have watched my mill from morn to night,
And never saw yon flour so snowy white.
And many are the mouths to-day I've fed,
I ween,' the merry miller laughed and said.

I saw another, when the night grew nigh,
And turned each daily toiler from his task,
When gold and crimson banners decked the sky-
I saw another, and I paused to ask:
'What have you done to-day,
Rumseller, say?'

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Mandrake

FLORENTINE we now design to show;--
A greater blockhead ne'er appeared below;
It seems a prudent woman he had wed,
With beauty that might grace a monarch's bed;
Young, brisk, good-humoured, with engaging mien;
None in the town, or round, the like was seen:
Her praises every voice inclined to sing,
And judged her worthy of a mighty king;
At least a better husband she deserved:
An arrant fool he looked, and quite unnerved.
This Nicia Calfucci (for such his name)
Was fully bent to have a father's fame,
And thought his country honour he could do,
Could he contrive his lineage to pursue.
No holy saint in Paradise was blessed,
But what this husband fervently addressed;
From day to day, so oft he teazed for grace,
They scarcely knew his off'rings where to place.
No matron, quack, nor conjurer around,
But what he tried their qualities profound;
Yet all in vain: in spite of charm or book,
No father he, whatever pains he took.

TO Florence then returned a youth from France;
Where he had studied,--more than complaisance:
Well trained as any from that polished court;
To Fortune's favours anxious to resort;
Gallant and seeking ev'ry FAIR to please;
Each house, road, alley, soon he knew at ease;
The husbands, good or bad, their whims and years,
With ev'ry thing that moved their hopes or fears;
What sort of fuel best their females charmed;
What spies were kept by those who felt alarmed;
The if's, for's, to's, and ev'ry artful wile,
That might in love a confidant beguile,
Or nurse, or father-confessor, or dog;
When passion prompts, few obstacles can clog.

THE snares were spread, each stratagem was laid;
And every thing arranged to furnish aid,
When our gay spark determined to invest
Old Nicia with the cuckold's branching crest.
The plan no doubt was well conceived and bold;
The lady to her friends appeared not cold;
Within her husband's house she seemed polite;
But ne'er familiarly was seen invite,
No further could a lover dare proceed;
Not one had hope the belle his flame would heed.

OUR youth, Calimachus, no sooner came,

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poem by La Fontaine
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