Quotes about disarm, page 8
Every Attribute You Have Has Been Bought
When I met you in that darkened room,
I just didn't realise,
That all I'd feel was heartbreak and gloom,
For peering into those eyes.
You looked just like a beauty queen,
Standing seductively over the bar,
The most gorgeous woman I'd ever seen,
A glistening beautiful star.
I may have had too much to drink,
But that didn't spoil my view,
In fact it inspired me to think,
My desire was to be with you.
How could a guy be so lucky in love,
It must be my ability to disarm,
What I'm seeing is a gift from above,
Full of good looks and charm.
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poem by Bri Mar
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The Battle of the Summer Islands : Canto 1
What fruits they have, and how heaven smiles
Upon those late-discovered isles.
Aid me, Bellona, while the dreadful fight
Betwixt a nation and two whales I write.
Seas stained with gore I sing, adventurous toil,
And how these monsters did disarm an isle.
Bermudas, walled with rocks, who does not know?
That happy island where huge lemons grow,
And orange trees, which golden fruit do bear,
The Hesperian garden boasts of none so fair;
Where shining pearl, coral, and many a pound,
On the rich shore, of ambergris is found.
The lofty cedar, which to heaven aspires,
The prince of trees, is fuel for their fires;
The smoke by which their loaded spits do turn,
For incense might on sacred altars burn;
Their private roofs on odorous timber borne,
Such as might palaces for kings adorn.
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poem by Edmund Waller
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Presented To The King, At His Arrival In Holland, After The Discovery Of The Conspiracy. 1696
Ye careful Angels, whom eternal Fate
Ordains, on Earth and human Acts to wait;
Who turn with secret Pow'r this restless Ball,
And bid predestin'd Empires rise and fall:
Your sacred Aid religious Monarchs own;
When first They merit, then ascend the Throne:
But Tyrants dread Ye, lest your just Decree
Transfer the Pow'r, and set the People free:
See rescu'd Britain at your Altars bow:
And hear her Hymns your happy Care avow:
That still her Axes and her Rods support
The Judge's Frown, and grace the awful Court:
That Law with all her pompous Terror stands,
To wrest the Dagger from the Traitor's Hands;
And rigid Justice reads the fatal Word;
Poises the Ballance first, then draws the Sword.
Britain Her Safety to your Guidance owns,
That She can sep'rate Parricides from Sons;
That, impious Rage disarm'd, She lives and Reigns,
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poem by Matthew Prior
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A Sketch
Young Harwald's burning coal-black eye,
And clustering locks of raven dye—
That o'er his lofty forehead hung,
In thick neglected masses flung,—
Contrasted strangely with the cheek
So wan, so sunken, and so pale,—
Save when the hectic's transient streak
Pass'd over it—and told a tale
Of silent suffering and decay,
That wore the springs of life away.
“Scarce five and twenty years,” he said,
“The light of heaven has round me shed;
But these few years of woe and crime,
Have done the lingering work of time.
I was a spoil'd and wayward boy,
In infancy my father's toy;
Each wild caprice, each childish whim,
Was humour'd and indulged by him;
Until my passions, unrestrain'd,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Marriage Bonds
“I never looked for any marriage bond, ”
said Heloise to Abelard.
She knew that marriage is no magic wand,
despite the popular canard
that it consolidates relationships
that would be broken otherwise.
A lovely face can’t launch a thousand ships,
and marriage fails as a franchise
unless, instead of drifting without ease
into the boredom of routine,
the married couple sails like ships on seas,
not stretching in a limousine,
but tossed by waves whose turbulence ensures
that all emotions that they’ve felt
will amplify and not disarm amours,
providing them not a lifelovebelt,
but surfboard with which they can catch the waves,
not drowning since they do not tread
upon the other’s dreams, not bound like slaves
to rings that bound them when first wed.
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poem by Gershon Hepner
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Ode on St. Cecilia's Day
I.
Descend ye Nine! descend and sing;
The breathing instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly-pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet sound,
'Till the roofs all around
The shrill echo's rebound:
While in more lengthen'd notes and slow,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers, soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies;
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;
'Till, by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
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poem by Alexander Pope
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La Grand-Mère (The Grandmother)
To die - to sleep.
Shakespeare
« Dors-tu ?... réveille-toi, mère de notre mère !
Car ton sommeil souvent ressemble à ta prière.
Mais, ce soir, on dirait la madone de pierre ;
Ta lèvre est immobile et ton souffle est muet.
« Pourquoi courber ton front plus bas que de coutume ?
Quel mal avons-nous fait, pour ne plus nous chérir ?
Vois, la lampe pâlit, l'âtre scintille et fume ;
Si tu ne parles pas, le feu qui se consume,
Et la lampe, et nous deux, nous allons tous mourir !
« Tu nous trouveras morts près de la lampe éteinte.
Alors que diras-tu quand tu t'éveilleras ?
Tes enfants à leur tour seront sourds à ta plainte.
Pour nous rendre la vie, en invoquant ta sainte,
Il faudrait bien longtemps nous serrer dans tes bras.
« Donne-nous donc tes mains dans nos mains réchauffées,
Chante-nous quelque chant de pauvre troubadour.
Dis-nous ces chevaliers qui, servis par les fées,
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poem by Victor Hugo
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The Disappointment
One day the Amorous Lysander,
By an impatient Passion sway'd,
Surpris'd fair Chris, that lov'd Maid,
Who could defend herself no longer.
All things did with his Love conspire;
The gilded Planet of the Day,
In his gay Chariot drawn by Fire,
Was now descending to the Sea,
And left no Light to guide the World,
But what from Claris Brighter Eyes was hurld.
In a lone Thicket made for Love,
Silent as yielding Maids Consent,
She with a Charming Languishment,
Permits his Force, yet gently strove ;
Her Hands his Bosom softly meet.
But not to put him back design'd.
Rather to draw 'em on inclin'd:
Whilst he lay trembling at her Feet,
Resistance 'tis in vain to show ;
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poem by Aphra Behn from National Ballad and Song (1897)
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Satire II
Sir; though (I thanke God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this towne, yet there's one state
In all ill things so excellently best,
That hate, towards them, breeds pitty towards the rest.
Though Poetry indeed be such a sinne
As I thinke that brings dearths, and Spaniards in,
Though like the Pestilence and old fashion'd love,
Ridlingly it catch men; and doth remove
Never, till it be sterv'd out; yet their state
Is poore, disarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate.
One,(like a wretch, which at Barre judg'd as dead,
Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot reade,
And saves his life)gives ideot actors meanes
(Starving himselfe)to live by'his labor'd sceanes;
As in some Organ, Puppits dance above
And bellows pant below, which them do move.
One would move Love by rimes; but witchcrafts charms
Bring not now their old feares, nor their old harmes:
Rammes, and slings now are seely battery,
Pistolets are the best Artillerie.
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poem by John Donne
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The Origin Of Flattery
WHEN Jove, in anger to the sons of the earth,
Bid artful Vulcan give Pandora birth,
And sent the fatal gift which spread below
O'er all the wretched race contagious woe,
Unhappy man, by vice and folly tost,
Found in the storms of life his quiet lost,
While Envy, Avarice, and Ambition, hurl'd
Discord and death around the warring world;
Then the blest peasant left his fields and fold,
And barter'd love and peace for power and gold;
Left his calm cottage and his native plain,
In search of wealth to tempt the faithless main;
Or, braving danger, in the battle stood,
And bathed his savage hands in human blood;
No longer then, his woodland walks among,
The shepherd lad his genuine passion sung,
Or sought at early morn his soul's delight,
Or graved her name upon the bark at night;
To deck her flowing hair no more he wove
The simple wreath, or with ambitious love
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poem by Charlotte Smith
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