Quotes about prate, page 7
The Master-Cook
With us there rade a Maister-Cook that came
From the Rochelle which is neere Angouleme.
Littel hee was, but rounder than a topp,
And his small berd hadde dipped in manie a soppe,
His honde was smoother than beseemeth mann's,
And his discoorse was all of marzipans,
Of tripes of Caen, or Burdeux snailes swote,
And Seinte Menhoulde wher cooken pigges-foote.
To Thoulouse and to Bress and Carcasson
For pyes and fowles and chesnottes hadde hee wonne,
Of hammes of Thuringie colde hee prate,
And well hee knew what Princes hadde on plate
At Christmas-tide, from Artois to Gascogne.
Lordinges, quod hee, manne liveth nat alone
By bred, but meates rost and seethed, and broth,
And purchasable deinties, on mine othe.
Honey and hote gingere well liketh hee,
And whales-flesch mortred with spicerie.
For, lat be all how man denie or carpe,"
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Marvellous Martin
Who sees him walk the street, can scarce forbear
To question thus his friend, What prig goes there?
So much hath Nature, as 'tis oft her plan,
Stamped inward trickery on the outward man!
And yet, with her great interdiction deep
Impressed thus on his being, see him creep
Into our Parliament, and dare to prate
About the god-like principles of State;
With this sole claim address him to the work,
That he has read that prince of sophists, Burke!
And though a dreary Plunkett's glad to praise
His talent, seeing that their feeble rays
Have just that kindred with his own pinched mind
Which (says the proverb ) makes us wond'rous kind.
No more could such a creature feel or think
Beyond Expediency's most beaten brink,
Or sum the onward pressure of our race,
Than I could heave a mountain from its base!
Nay, even the dogmas of his vaunted Burke
Work in him to no end, or backward work,
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poem by Charles Harpur
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Clepsydra
WHY, let is run! who bids it stay?
Let us the while be merry;
Time there in water creeps away,
With us it posts in sherry.
Time not employ'd's empty sound,
Nor did kind Heaven lend it,
But that the glass should quick go round,
And men in pleasure spend it.
Then set thy foot, brave boy, to mine,
Ply quick to cure our thinking;
An hour-glass in an hour of wine
Would be but lazy drinking.
The man that snores the hour-glass out
Is truly a time-waster,
But we, who troll this glass about,
Make him to post it faster.
Yet though he flies so fast, some think,
'Tis well known to the sages,
He'll not refuse to stay and drink,
And yet perform his stages.
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poem by Charles Cotton
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A To Z Of All I Hate
Artists indiscriminate,
Billionaire bulls bears berate,
Careless kids insatiate,
Domination by dread State,
Effete fools effeminate
Frogs, slimy snails fat Frenchman ate,
Growing old, ungrateful state -
Hypocrites who soon deflate,
Intellectuals irate,
Jobbing backwards when too late,
Kits and cattens mewling mate,
Litigation, legislate.
Matrimonial stale_mate,
Neglecting rendez-vous, birthdate,
Overacting, things ornate,
Pastry spilt from pattern plate.
Queues, where late folks always wait,
Refusing poor, unfortunate,
Straying outside narrow, straight,
Trust betrayed. Unfortunate
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Υμνος αυμνος
O Thou whose image in the shrine
Of human spirits dwells divine;
Which from that precinct once conveyed,
To be to outer day displayed,
Doth vanish, part, and leave behind
Mere blank and void of empty mind,
Which wilful fancy seeks in vain
With casual shapes to fill again!
O Thou that in our bosom’s shrine
Dost dwell, unknown because divine!
I thought to speak, I thought to say,
‘The light is here,’ ‘behold the way,’
‘The voice was thus,’ and ‘thus the word,’
And ‘thus I saw,’ and ‘that I heard,’—
But from the lips that half essayed
The imperfect utterance fell unmade.
O Thou, in that mysterious shrine
Enthroned, as I must say, divine!
I will not frame one thought of what
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poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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Roamin' Free
The miser sits beside his hoard,
The lover tarries by his bride,
And he who neither may afford
Is free to roam the whole world wide.
Ye prate of cares, of plans amiss;
With voices grave and faces long;
While I - I ask of life but this
To drink, to kiss, to troll a song
And rove a-roamin', roamin' free
A-ringin' in the changes.
Why linger here to waste a tear
When joy awaits o'er the ranges?
Why tarry there to nurse a care
When golden days are over?
For far and wide, where men abide,
There's welcome for the rover.
Who seeks to earn a life of ease:
For honor, wealth, and fame exist;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Clavering
I say no more for Clavering
Than I should say of him who fails
To bring his wounded vessel home
When reft of rudder and of sails;
I say no more than I should say
Of any other one who sees
Too far for guidance of to-day,
Too near for the eternities.
I think of him as I should think
Of one who for scant wages played,
And faintly, a flawed instrument
That fell while it was being made;
I think of him as one who fared,
Unfaltering and undeceived,
Amid mirages of renown
And urgings of the unachieved;
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poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Jefferson's Daughter
'It is asserted, on the authority of an American Newspaper, that the
daughter of Thomas Jefferson, late President of the United States, was
sold at New Orleans for $1,000.'-Morning Chronicle.
Can the blood that, at Lexington, poured o'er the plain,
When the sons warred with tyrants their rights to uphold,
Can the tide of Niagara wipe out the stain?
No! Jefferson's child has been bartered for gold!
Do you boast of your freedom? Peace, babblers-be still;
Prate not of the goddess who scarce deigns to hear;
Have ye power to unbind? Are ye wanting in will?
Must the groans of your bondman still torture the ear?
The daughter of Jefferson sold for a slave!
The child of a freeman for dollars and francs!
The roar of applause, when your orators rave,
Is lost in the sound of her chain, as it clanks.
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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Woman To Man
You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well,
How could the hand be enemy of the arm,
Or seed and sod be rivals! How could light
Feel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf
Or competition dwell 'twixt lip and smile?
Are we not part and parcel of yourselves?
Like strands in one great braid we intertwine
And make the perfect whole. You could not be,
Unless we gave you birth; we are the soil
From which you sprang, yet sterile were that soil
Save as you planted. (Though in the Book we read
One woman bore a child with no man's aid
We find no record of a man-child born
Without the aid of woman! Fatherhood
Is but a small achievement at the best
While motherhood comprises heaven and hell.)
This ever-growing argument of sex
Is most unseemly, and devoid of sense.
Why waste more time in controversy, when
There is not time enough for all of love,
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Pipe and Can
I
THE Indian weed withered quite;
Green at morn, cut down at night;
Shows thy decay: all flesh is hay:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high,
Think thou behold'st the vanity
Of worldly stuff, gone with a puff:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
But when the pipe grows foul within,
Think of thy soul defiled with sin,
And that the fire doth it require:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
The ashes, that are left behind,
May serve to put thee still in mind
That unto dust return thou must:
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poem by Anonymous
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