Quotes about wets, page 7
The rain wets the leopard's spots but does not wash them off.
Akan proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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When rain beats on a leopard it wets it, but rain does not wash out its spots.
Ashanti proverbs
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The Shepheardes Calender: November
November: Ægloga vndecima. Thenot & Colin.
Thenot.
Colin my deare, when shall it please thee sing,
As thou were | wont songs of some iouisaunce?
Thy Muse to long slombreth in sorrowing,
Lulled a sleepe through loues misgouernaunce.
Now somewhat sing, whose endles souenaunce,
Emong the shepeheards swaines may aye remaine,
Whether thee list the loued lasse aduaunce,
Or honor Pan with hymnes of higher vaine.
Colin.
Thenot, now nis the time of merimake.
Nor Pan to herye, nor with loue to playe:
Sike myrth in May is meetest for to make,
Or summer shade vnder the cocked haye.
But nowe sadde Winter welked hath the day,
And Phoebus weary of his yerely tas-ke,
Ystabled hath his steedes in lowlye laye,
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poem by Edmund Spenser
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The Old Play
I
IN an old play-house, in an old play,
In an old piece that has been done to death,
We dance, kind ladies, noble friends.
Observe our modishness, I pray,
What dignity the music lends.
Our sighs, no doubt, are only a doll's breath,
But gravely done—indeed, we're all devotion,
All pride and fury and pitiful elegance.
The importance of these antics, who may doubt?
Do you deny us the honour of emotion
Because another has danced this, our dance?
Let us jump it out.
II
IN the old play-house, in the watery flare
Of gilt and candlesticks, in a dim pit
Furred with a powder of corroded plush,
Paint fallen from angels floating in mid-air,
The gods in languor sit.
Their talk they hush,
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poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Anna Stesia
Have u ever been so lonely
That u felt like u were the
Only one in this world?
Have u ever wanted 2 play
With someone so much ud take
Any one boy or girl?
Chorus
Anna stesia come 2 me
Talk 2 me, ravish me
Liberate my mind
Tell me what u think of me
Praise me, craze me
Out this space and time
Between white and black, night and day
Black night seemed like the only way...
So I danced
Music late, nothing great (music late, nothing great)
No way 2 differentiate (no way 2 differentiate)
I took a chance
Gregory looks just like a ghost
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song performed by Prince
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Everythings Okay
Recorded by hank williams, sr.
Words and music by hank williams, sr.
I [g] went to the country - just [c] the other day
To see [d7] my uncle bill and sorta [g] pass the time away
I asked him how hed been - since [c] last, Id passed his way
He rubbed his [d7] chin - heres what he had [g] to say.
My wifes been sick - the [c] youngns, too
And Im [d7] durn near - down [g] with the flu
The cows gone dry - and them [c] hens wont lay
But - [d7] were still a-livin - so ever-[g] things okay.
The hogs took the cholera and theyve all done died
The bees got mad - and they left the hive
The weevils got the corn and the rain rotted the hay
But - were still a-livin - so everthings okay.
The porch rotted down - thats more expense
The durned old mule - he tore down the fence
The mortgage is due and - I cant pay
But - were still a-livin - so everthings okay.
The cow broke in the field and eat up the beans
The durn rabbits - they got the turnip greens
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song performed by Hank Williams
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An After-Dinner Poem
(TERPSICHORE)
Read at the Annual Dinner of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at
Cambridge, August 24, 1843.
IN narrowest girdle, O reluctant Muse,
In closest frock and Cinderella shoes,
Bound to the foot-lights for thy brief display,
One zephyr step, and then dissolve away!
. . . . . . . . . .
Short is the space that gods and men can spare
To Song's twin brother when she is not there.
Let others water every lusty line,
As Homer's heroes did their purple wine;
Pierian revellers! Know in strains like these
The native juice, the real honest squeeze,---
Strains that, diluted to the twentieth power,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Amarantha. A Pastorall
Up with the jolly bird of light
Who sounds his third retreat to night;
Faire Amarantha from her bed
Ashamed starts, and rises red
As the carnation-mantled morne,
Who now the blushing robe doth spurne,
And puts on angry gray, whilst she,
The envy of a deity,
Arayes her limbes, too rich indeed
To be inshrin'd in such a weed;
Yet lovely 'twas and strait, but fit;
Not made for her, but she to it:
By nature it sate close and free,
As the just bark unto the tree:
Unlike Love's martyrs of the towne,
All day imprison'd in a gown,
Who, rackt in silke 'stead of a dresse,
Are cloathed in a frame or presse,
And with that liberty and room,
The dead expatiate in a tombe.
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poem by Richard Lovelace
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Peruvian Tales: Aciloe, Tale V
Character of ZAMOR , a bard--His passion for ACILOE , daughter of the Cazique who rules the valley--The Peruvian tribe prepare to defend themselves--A battle--The PERUVIANS are vanquished--ACILOE'S father is made a prisoner, and ZAMOR is supposed to have fallen in the engagement--ALPHONSO becomes enamoured of ACILOE --Offers to marry her--She rejects him--In revenge he puts her father to the torture--She appears to consent, in order to save him--Meets ZAMOR in a wood--LAS CASAS joins them--Leads the two lovers to ALPHONSO , and obtains their freedom--ZAMOR conducts ACILOE and her father to Chili--A reflection on the influence of Poetry over the human mind.
In this sweet scene, to all the virtues kind,
Mild ZAMOR own'd the richest gifts of mind;
For o'er his tuneful breast the heav'nly muse
Shed from her sacred spring inspiring dews;
She loves to breathe her hallow'd strain where art
Has never veil'd the soul, or warp'd the heart;
Where fancy glows with all her native fire,
And passion lives on the exulting lyre.
Nature, in terror rob'd or beauty dreast,
Could thrill with dear enchantment ZAMOR'S breast;
He lov'd the languid sigh the zephyr pours,
He lov'd the placid rill that feeds the flowers--
But more the hollow sound the wild winds form,
When black upon the billow hangs the storm;
The torrent rolling from the mountain steep,
Its white foam trembling on the darken'd deep--
And oft on Andes' heights with earnest gaze
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poem by Helen Maria Williams
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The Missionary - Canto Eighth
The morn returns, and, reddening, seems to shed
One ray of glory on the patriot-dead.
Round the dark stone, the victor-chiefs behold!
Still on their locks the gouts of gore hang cold!
There stands the brave Caupolican, the pride
Of Chili, young Lautaro, by his side!
Near the grim circle, pendent from the wood,
Twelve hundred Spanish heads are dripping blood.
Shrill sound the notes of death: in festive dance,
The Indian maids with myrtle boughs advance;
The tinkling sea-shells on their ancles ring,
As, hailing thus the victor-youth, they sing:--
SONG OF INDIAN MAIDS.
Oh, shout for Lautaro, the young and the brave!
The arm of whose strength was uplifted to save,
When the steeds of the strangers came rushing amain,
And the ghosts of our fathers looked down on the slain!
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poem by William Lisle Bowles
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