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Flirt and Phil

A wit, by learning well refined,
A beau, but of the rural kind,
To Sylvia made pretences;
They both profess'd an equal love,
Yet hoped by different means to move
Her judgement of her senses.

Young sprightly Flirt, of blooming mien,
Watch'd the best minutes to be seen,
Went - when his glass advised him;
While meagre Phil of brooks inquired,
A wight for wit and and parts admired
And witty ladies prized him.

Sylvia had wit, had spirits too;
To hear the one, the other view,
Suspended held the scales;
Her wit, her youth too, claim'd its share:
Let none the preference declare,
But turn up - heads or tails.

poem by William Shenstone
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Conquest

Those eyes that set my fancy on a fire,
Those crispéd hairs that hold my heart in chains,
Those dainty hands which conquered my desire,
That wit which of my thoughts doth hold the reins:
Those eyes for clearness do the stars surpass,
Those hairs obscure the brightness of the sun,
Those hands more white than ever ivory was,
That wit even to the skies hath glory won.
O eyes that pierce our hearts without remorse!
O hands that conquer more than Caesar's force!
O wit that turns huge kingdoms upside down!
Then, Love, be judge, what heart may there withstand
Such eyes, such hair, such wit, and such a hand?

poem by Philippe Desportes
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Scarlett Treat

Scarlett,
Treat me to your insights.
Your thoughts with wit,
So delight.

And Scarlett,
I must say
If not for you...
I would not feel as much encouraged,
Had not your comments
Made more sense and cleared my view!

Scarlett,
Treat me to your insights.
Your thoughts with wit,
So delight.
I just can not sit knowing you are right...
And knowing I had perhaps been wrong,
By not accepting a reflection of me,
With belief.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I cried Today

I cried today...and not cuz ur gone but becuz i thought feelingz were strong

I cried today...and not by myself but wit that Keyshia Cole Song

I cried today...and didn't know what to do for the 1st time in my life

I cried today...It was worst pain then gettin shanked wit a knife

I cried today...about u and me, and where we go frm here

I cried today...wit so much PRIDe it was HARD to hold bak tears

I cried today...I wrote a poem I even rote a rhyme

I cried today...As if I weren't used to dis I cry all the time

I cried today...Thinking about the love that we once shared

I cried today...I cudn't see clearly..as if my vision's impaired

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poem by Nesean Coombs
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Oh, the Shamrock

Through Erin's Isle
To sport awhile
As Love and Valour wander'd,
With Wit, the sprite,
Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squander'd;
Where'er they pass,
A triple grass
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,
As softly green
As emeralds seen
Through purest crystal gleaming.
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf
Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!

Says Valour, "See,
They spring for me,
Those leafy gems of morning!" --

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poem by Thomas Moore
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Stella’s Birth-Day. 1724-5

As when a beauteous nymph decays,
We say she's past her dancing days;
So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in prose:
Yet merry folks, who want by chance
A pair to make a country dance,
Call the old housekeeper, and get her
To fill a place for want of better:
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid disgrace,
Once more the Dean supplies their place.
Beauty and wit, too sad a truth!
Have always been confined to youth;
The god of wit and beauty's queen,
He twenty-one and she fifteen,
No poet ever sweetly sung,
Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;

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poem by Jonathan Swift
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To my Friend Mr. John Fletcher, upon his Faithful Sheperdess

I know too well, that, no more than the man,
That travels through the burning desarts, can,
When he is beaten with the raging sun,
Half-smother'd with the dust, have power to run
From a cool river, which himself doth find,
Ere he be slaked; no more can he, whose mind
Joys in the Muses hold from that delight,
When Nature and his full thoughts bid him write.
Yet wish I those, whom I for friends have known,
To sing their thoughts to no ears but their own.
Why should the man, whose wit ne'er had a stain,
Upon the public stage present his vein,
And make a thousand men in judgment sit,
To call in question his undoubted wit,
Scarce two of which can understand the laws
Which they should judge by, nor the, party's cause?
Among the rout, there is not one that hath
In his own censure an explicit faith;
One company, knowing they judgment lack,
Ground their belief onthe next man in black;

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poem by Francis Beaumont
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The Hill Of San Sebastian

I ought to feel more satisfy an' happy dan
I be,
For better husban' dan ma own, it 's very
hard to fin'
An' plaintee woman if dey got such boy an'
girl as me
Would never have no troub' at all, an'
not'ing on deir min'
But w'ile dey're alway wit' me, an' dough I
love dem all
I can't help t'inkin' w'en I watch de chil'ren
out at play
Of tam I'm jus' lak dat mese'f, an' den de
tear will fall
For de hill of St. Sebastien is very far away!

It seem so pleasan' w'en I come off here ten
year ago
An' hardes' work I 'm gettin' den, was never
heavy load,

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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Ole Docteur Fiset

Ole Docteur Fiset of Saint Anicet,
Sapré tonnerre! he was leev long tam!
I'm sure he's got ninety year or so,
Beat all on de Parish 'cept Pierre Courteau,
An' day affer day he work all de sam'.

Dat house on de hill, you can see it still,
She's sam' place he buil' de firs' tam' he come
Behin' it dere's one leetle small jardin
Got plaintee de bes' tabac Canayen
Wit' fameuse apple an' beeg blue plum.

An' dey're all right dere, for de small boy's scare
No matter de apple look nice an' red,
For de small boy know if he's stealin' some
Den Docteur Fiset on dark night he come,
An' cut leetle feller right off hees head!

But w'en dey was rap, an' tak' off de cap,
M'sieu' le Docteur he will say 'Entrez,'

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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Bateese And His Little Decoys

O I'm very very tire Marie,
I wonder if I'm able hol' a gun
An' me dat 's alway risin' wit' de sun
An' travel on de water, an' paddle ma canoe
An' trap de mink an' beaver de fall an' winter
t'roo,
But now I t'ink dat fun is gone forever.

Wall! I'm mebbe stayin' long enough,
For eighty-four I see it on de spring;
Dough ma fader he was fellin' purty tough
An' at ninety year can do mos' ev'ry t'ing,
But I never know de feller, don't care how ole
he come,
Dat is n't sure to t'ink he 's got anoder year,
ba gum!
Before he lif' de anchor for de las' tam!

It 's not so easy lyin' on de bed,
An' lissen to de wil' bird on de bay,

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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