Quotes about wench, page 4
Don Adriano de Armado: I will hereupon confess I am in love: and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised courtesy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort, me, boy: what great men have been in love?
lines from the play Love's Labour's Lost, Act I, Scene 2, script by William Shakespeare (1598)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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I have maya for mother in law
I have Maya for mother-in-law,
the world for father-in-law;
three brothers-in-law, like tigers;
and the husband’s thoughts
are full of laughing women;
no god, this man,
And I cannot cross the sister-in-law.
But I will
give this wench the slip
and go cuckold my husband with
Hara, my Lord.
My mind is my maid:
by her kindness, I join
my Lord,
my utterly beautiful Lord
from the mountain peaks,
my lord white as jasmine,
and I will make Him
my good husband
poem by Akka Mahadevi
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African Touch and Russian Cure
Do you have sense my dear wench?
You shouldn't reach me soon to drench
in destitute situations dire.
A leap off Africa from mire
isn't fair the old man's hands to clench.
The pedicurists my heart wrench!
your touch pushes me in a trench
and kisses me to fall in fire.
Do you have sense my dear?
A manicurist to retrench
from her land yearns, and to avenge
poverty, likes me to hire.
Tattooists too, to me wire.
The maids mail me my thirst to quench.
Do you have sense my dear?
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Oh, For a Bowl of Fat Canary
Oh, for a bowl of fat Canary,
Rich Palermo, sparkling Sherry,
Some nectar else, from Juno's dairy;
Oh, these draughts would make us merry!
Oh, for a wench (I deal in faces,
And in other daintier things);
Tickled am I with her embraces,
Fine dancing in such fairy rings.
Oh, for a plump fat leg of mutton,
Veal, lamb, capon, pig, and coney;
None is happy but a glutton,
None an ass but who want money.
Wines indeed and girls are good,
But brave victuals feast the blood;
For wenches, wine, and lusty cheer,
Jove would leap down to surfeit here.
poem by John Lyly
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Song
Gran.
O For a Bowle of fatt Canary,
Rich Palermo, sparkling Sherry,
Some Nectar else, from Iuno's Daiery,
O these draughts would make vs merry.
Psyllus.
O for a wench, (I deale in faces,
And in other dayntier things,)
Tickled am I with her Embraces,
Fine dancing in such Fairy Ringes.
Manes.
O for a plump fat leg of Mutton,
Veale, Lambe, Capon, Pigge, & Conney,
None is happy but a Glutton,
None an Asse but who wants money.
Chor.
Wines (indeed,) & Girles are good,
[...] Read more
poem by John Lyly
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Sonnet XXI: A Witless Galant
A witless gallant a young wench that woo'd
(Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move),
Entreated me, as e'er I wish'd his good,
To write him but one sonnet to his love;
When I, as fast as e'er my pen could trot,
Pour'd out what first from quick invention came,
Nor never stood one word thereof to blot,
Much like his wit that was to use the same;
But with my verses he his mistress won,
Which doted on the dolt beyond all measure.
But see, for you to Heav'n for phrase I run,
And ransack all Apollo's golden treasure;
Yet by my froth this fool his love obtains,
And I lose you for all my love and pains.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Don't Grieve, Leave! - 1124 - Current Version
Deceived, grieve not but leave! Departing in a trice -
better alone than prone, pain tripled thrice.
'If of himself he will not love' advice
is academic - so why starve on rice
when heart and mind may find spring roll of dice
spin spare rib tasty? Hasty snap snare's splice.
Waste not one day, escape from prison vice,
abandon scoundrel to his own device.
May praise aloud from crazy crowd suffice
revising shaky rake from snaky vice?
Dance on, advance, leave loser to his lice,
uncompromising sample promised spice.
Terse verse advice cannot be more concise,
wench grieve not, take French leave, split! W[r]it precise!
(16 November 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Don't Grieve, Leave! - 1124 - Initial Version
Don't grieve, but, leave, and do so in a trice,
better alone, than moan pain doubled twice.
'If of himself he will not love' advice
is academic - so why starve on rice
when heart and mind may find with roll of dice
a spare rib tasty? Hasty snap the splice.
Waste not the day, turn swift from prison vice
and leave ice scoundrel to his own device.
Does praise aloud from crazy crowd suffice
revising shaky rake with snaky vice?
Dance on, advance, leave loser to his lice,
and unforesworn incite tomorrow's spice.
Counsel in terse verse can't be more precise,
wench grieve not, take French leave, split in terms w[r]it concise.
(29 March 2005)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Sensitive Burglar
Selecting in the dining-room
The silver of his choice,
The burglar heard from chamber gloom
A female voice.
As cold and bitter as a toad,
She spat a nasty name,
So even as his swag he stowed
He blushed for shame.
'You dirty dog!' he heard her say,
'I sniff your whisky stench.
I bet you've gambled half your pay,
Or blown it on a wench.
Begone from here, you rakehell boor!
You shame the human race.
What wife would pillow-share with your
Disgusting face!'
A tear the tender burglar shed,
Then indignation rose,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert William Service
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Fatherless
The vice upon my lip
Sin above all else
Carry away at the hip
A child, a burden of shame
Signify you know
Clarify thus far
How my timid features show
I am not at fault
Beckon to the wards
Claim this pungent victory
That reeks with bloody swords
And the eyes full of misery
Flaunt your weak intelligence
As I bare my sin
Born the eyes of beauties sense
Upon a rocking cradle
[...] Read more
poem by Chyna Parker
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