Quotes about nauseous, page 5
Epilogue to Henry II.
Thus you the sad catastrophe have seen,
Occasioned by a mistress and a queen.
Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they say;
But English manufacture got the day.
Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver;
Fair Rosamond was but her nom de guerre.
Now tell me, gallants, would you lead your life
With such a mistress, or with such a wife?
If one must be your choice, which d' ye approve,
The curtain lecture, or the curtain love?
Would ye be godly with perpetual strife,
Still drudging on with homely Joan, your wife,
Or take your pleasure in a wicked way,
Like honest whoring Harry in the play?
I guess your minds; the mistress would be taking,
And nauseous matrimony sent a packing.
The devil's in you all; mankind's a rogue;
You love the bride, but you detest the clog.
After a year, poor spouse is left i' the lurch,
And you, like Haynes, return to mother-church.
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poem by John Dryden
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Book IV - Part 01 - Proem
I wander afield, thriving in sturdy thought,
Through unpathed haunts of the Pierides,
Trodden by step of none before. I joy
To come on undefiled fountains there,
To drain them deep; I joy to pluck new flowers,
To seek for this my head a signal crown
From regions where the Muses never yet
Have garlanded the temples of a man:
First, since I teach concerning mighty things,
And go right on to loose from round the mind
The tightened coils of dread Religion;
Next, since, concerning themes so dark, I frame
Song so pellucid, touching all throughout
Even with the Muses' charm- which, as 'twould seem,
Is not without a reasonable ground:
For as physicians, when they seek to give
Young boys the nauseous wormwood, first do touch
The brim around the cup with the sweet juice
And yellow of the honey, in order that
The thoughtless age of boyhood be cajoled
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poem by Lucretius
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Slow Down
Can I get a minute to myself?
Every other day I'm talking to some one new
'Here's my number', 'text me' what am I supposed to do?
I'm not gonna be rude and reject you
No disrespect but you have no clue
I need time for me
Make a track
Simply relax
Or write some poetry
I look at my watch and the hands are spinning twice as fast
I'm feeling nauseous
Get me off this ride
I shouldn't even be on with a history of epilepsy
Everything is moving hyper sonic speed
I'm about to graduate high school next thing you know I'll be married
I'll blink and rub my hand over my balding head
Then my next breath would be one of last laying on my death bed
In utter shock because yesterday I was a kid
Or was i?
Did my whole life pass me by?
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poem by Martin McCollugh
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The School
I WAS not drowsy though the scholars droned.
Hearing the music that they made of Greek,
Whenever Helen's unforgotten face
Sent other young men whisking off to war;
Hearing much mention of the hecatombs,
And Pericles, and fishes that were purple,
Temples in white, and trees that they named olive;
And thinking always of proud Athens shining
Upon her hill, that slanted to her sea:
Equipped with Grecian thoughts, how could I live
Among my father's folk? My father's house
Was narrow and his fields were nauseous.
I kicked his clods for being common dirt,
Worthy a world which never could be Greek;
Cursed the paternity that planted me
One green leaf in a wilderness of autumn;
And wept, as fitting such a fruitful spirit
Sealed in a yellow tomb.
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poem by John Crowe Ransom
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Many Don't Get It At All
The bolder ones get all the gold.
At least this is the story we are told,
That's kept.
No matter who sits...
Regretting the guess.
Many have done it.
Many still live it.
And many don't get it at all.
Wondering about the menu.
And what deal appeals.
Wondering about the service.
And who cooked the meal!
After what they ate is gone...
Oh ooooh.
After feeling weak,
And not strong!
Many have done it.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Gravestones Which Say Their Names
The prom queens are in disguise,
Brushing in their raiment, slipping like anorexic
Manatees into the green goodbye,
And the world is overheating, panting like a tortoise
Who has eaten too much of the deep orchid,
And is feeling nauseous watching the tourists go by,
Growing around the beautiful mermaid slapping with
The coy otters who can’t think but smile,
And soon we will be selling fireworks, and I will be
Getting paid; Even sooner still, someone will slip away,
Forgetfully and finally, the persistent conclusions of
Gravity, but grandmother finally has a headstone,
And I am writing another poem trying to tattoo my
Skeleton onto this page: Wishful thinking, like trying
To mix cake in a recipe of scars and tears,
And everything else the little girls don’t know to say
For so many years, as the buses draw up in evening,
And in morning, as mosquitoes steal insignificant amounts
Of blood, and the children in their seats fight and squeal,
And one or to yet afraid hide their faces in books and
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Captivating Actions of our Youth
Captivating actions of our youth
moment to moment good time
search engine attention span
voluntary overload
perpetual hyper drive
motion's momentary pellmell dive
the weed the booze
the pills the shrooms
the morning's shifting results
daily damage done to liver and lungs
toxin bowel toilet bowl release
whooping cough wetness
phlegm trickled with traces of blood
bitter trance
dry mouth daze
memories giving chase
the night's forgotten trace
the hang over's nauseous ride
JD's self prescribed drunken pride
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poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Epilogue to The Husband His Own Cuckold
Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit.
Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.
Nor is the puny poet void of care;
For authors, such as our new authors are,
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare;
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one,
But has as little as the very parson:
Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that though you like the play,
The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day;
But with the parson 'tis another case,
He, without holiness, may rise to grace;
The poet has one disadvantage more,
That if his play be dull, he's damned all o'er,
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor.
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poem by John Dryden
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To Mr. Edward Howard on His New Utopia
Thou damn'd antipodes to common sense!
Thou foil to Flecknoe! Prithee tell from whence
Does all this mighty stock of dullness spring,
Which in such loads thou to the stage dost bring?
Is't all thy own, or hast thou from Snow Hill
Th'assistance of some ballad-making quill?
No, they fly higher yet; thy plays are such
I'd swear they were translated out of Dutch:
And who the devil was e'er yet so drunk
To own the volumes of Mynheer Van Dunk?
Fain would I know what diet thou dost keep,
If thou dost always or dost never sleep.
Sure hasty pudding is thy chiefest dish;
With lights and livers and with stinking fish,
Oxcheek, tripe, garbage, thou dost treat thy brain,
Which nobly pays this tribute back again.
With daisy roots thy dwarfish muse is fed:
A giant's body with a pigmy's head.
Canst thou not find 'mongst all thy num'rous race
One friend so kind to tell thee that thy play's
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poem by Charles Sackville
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Haunted
Haunted? Ay, in a social way
By a body of ghosts in dread array;
But no conventional spectres they -
Appalling, grim, and tricky:
I quail at mine as I'd never quail
At a fine traditional spectre pale,
With a turnip head and a ghostly wail,
And a splash of blood on the dickey!
Mine are horrible, social ghosts, -
Speeches and women and guests and hosts,
Weddings and morning calls and toasts,
In every bad variety:
Ghosts who hover about the grave
Of all that's manly, free, and brave:
You'll find their names on the architrave
Of that charnel-house, Society.
Black Monday - black as its school-room ink -
With its dismal boys that snivel and think
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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