Quotes about nauseous, page 8
To my Honoured Kinsman John Driden, of Chesterton, in the County of Huntingdon, Esq.
How blessed is he, who leads a country life,
Unvexed with anxious cares, and void of strife!
Who, studying peace, and shunning civil rage,
Enjoyed his youth, and now enjoys his age:
All who deserve his love, he makes his own;
And, to be loved himself, needs only to be known.
Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours come,
From your award to wait their final doom;
And, foes before, return in friendship home.
Without their cost, you terminate the cause,
And save the expence of long litigious laws;
Where suits are traversed, and so little won,
That he who conquers is but last undone:
Such are not your decrees; but so designed,
The sanction leaves a lasting peace behind;
Like your own soul, serene, a pattern of your mind.
Promoting concord, and composing strife,
Lord of yourself, uncumbered with a wife;
Where, for a year, a month, perhaps a night,
Long penitence succeeds a short delight:
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poem by John Dryden
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Book IV - Part 02 - Existence And Character Of The Images
But since I've taught already of what sort
The seeds of all things are, and how distinct
In divers forms they flit of own accord,
Stirred with a motion everlasting on,
And in what mode things be from them create,
And since I've taught what the mind's nature is,
And of what things 'tis with the body knit
And thrives in strength, and by what mode uptorn
That mind returns to its primordials,
Now will I undertake an argument-
One for these matters of supreme concern-
That there exist those somewhats which we call
The images of things: these, like to films
Scaled off the utmost outside of the things,
Flit hither and thither through the atmosphere,
And the same terrify our intellects,
Coming upon us waking or in sleep,
When oft we peer at wonderful strange shapes
And images of people lorn of light,
Which oft have horribly roused us when we lay
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poem by Lucretius
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No Ideas Original
Uhh, uhh
Uhhh, uhhh, uhhh
[intro: repeat 2x]
No ideas original, theres nothin new under the sun
Its never what you do, but how its done
What you base your happiness around material, women, and large paper
That means you inferior, not major
[nas]
If niggaz could look inside my mind, youll find
Where bodies are buried, first look past the hotties who dimes
Go to the center, enter with caution, past the braincell graveyard
Where weeds responsible for memory loss
Lets witness, the horrific, the stenchll make you nauseous
See what I seen every day I live with this torture
Lightin spliffs up to stay high like 24 hours
Sleep with my heat, wash with my gun in the shower
My tongue is power, it thrills women, kills demons
Long as Im still breathin Im still winnin, Ill teach em
The hood converted from trey bags to 20s a girl
Everybody had money, every summer was real ill
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song performed by Nas
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Book I - Part 07 - The Infinity Of The Universe
Now learn of what remains! More keenly hear!
And for myself, my mind is not deceived
How dark it is: But the large hope of praise
Hath strook with pointed thyrsus through my heart;
On the same hour hath strook into my breast
Sweet love of the Muses, wherewith now instinct,
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
Songs so pellucid, touching all throughout
Even with the Muses' charm- which, as 'twould seem,
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poem by Lucretius
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Heroin
You'll never leave me
You need me in this life
You can't live without me
I own you
You belong to me
That's right, don't ever try to leave me
Because you can't
You can't do it
You know who I am
(Who are you? Tell em' your name*)
My name is Heroin I'm better than your medicine
I'll take your life and your soul if you let me in
There ain't a problem in this world that I can't fix
There ain't a pain that you have I can't help you deal with (X 2)
You need me you can't live without me inside you
Don't believe in negative press you've been lied to
I'm all you need in life you can't breathe without me
I'm your best friend, your lover and your family
I make you feel like you have supernatural power
I'm all you need and I'm just a brown powder
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song performed by Q-Strange
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The Mix Show
We gon send this out for every street dj
This is somethin for the mix shows
Mix shows
You dont wanna go outside
Because the thugs are outside
They bustin slugs outside
So you dont wanna go outside
Lets go
Uh, Im outside lookin in
I could feel it through the wind
From the streets shore
I could see the sharks fin
They aint eat nuttin in a week
And they hunger is the reason why the blood drips on the concrete
So run your juice
Pit bulls drew
They gon shoot you in the head so what good is your bullet proof
Unless your bullet proof-la whats your affiliation
You just a rat handin out information
You wanna run and said clef took my paper
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song performed by Wyclef Jean
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Otho The Great - Act II
SCENE I.
An Ante-chamber in the Castle.
Enter LUDOLPH and SIGIFRED.
Ludolph. No more advices, no more cautioning:
I leave it all to fate to any thing!
I cannot square my conduct to time, place,
Or circumstances; to me 'tis all a mist!
Sigifred. I say no more.
Ludolph. It seems I am to wait
Here in the ante-room; that may be a trifle.
You see now how I dance attendance here,
Without that tyrant temper, you so blame,
Snapping the rein. You have medicin'd me
With good advices; and I here remain,
In this most honourable ante-room,
Your patient scholar.
Sigifred. Do not wrong me, Prince.
By Heavens, I'd rather kiss Duke Conrad's slipper,
When in the morning he doth yawn with pride,
Than see you humbled but a half-degree!
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poem by John Keats
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The Borough. Letter XIII: The Alms-House And Trustees
LEAVE now our streets, and in yon plain behold
Those pleasant Seats for the reduced and old;
A merchant's gift, whose wife and children died,
When he to saving all his powers applied;
He wore his coat till bare was every thread,
And with the meanest fare his body fed.
He had a female cousin, who with care
Walk'd in his steps, and learn'd of him to spare;
With emulation and success they strove,
Improving still, still seeking to improve,
As if that useful knowledge they would gain -
How little food would human life sustain:
No pauper came their table's crumbs to crave;
Scraping they lived, but not a scrap they gave:
When beggars saw the frugal Merchant pass,
It moved their pity, and they said, 'Alas!
Hard is thy fate my brother,' and they felt
A beggar's pride as they that pity dealt.
The dogs, who learn of man to scorn the poor,
Bark'd him away from every decent door;
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poem by George Crabbe
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The Convocation: A Poem
When Vertue's Standard Ecclesiasticks bear,
Their sacred Robe the noblest Minds revere.
All to its Guidance do their Thoughts submit,
But such who triumph in licentious Wit;
And nauseous Mirth as high Desert esteem,
When rais'd by Scorn upon Religion's Theme
As Kings by Right Divine o'er Nations sway,
As the most worthy, their high Pow'rs obey;
Homage by all is to the Priesthood born,
And none but Fools their Heav'nly Pastors scorn.
Yet censure not the Muse's Freedom here:
If urg'd by Errors, she must seem severe!
Tho' keen her Satyr, she no Envy bears;
Tho' Priests she lashes, she their Function spares.
Nor for ill Members such the Clergy calls,
But on their Shame, and not their Glory, falls.
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poem by Richard Savage
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The Candidate
Ye idler things, that soothed my hours of care,
Where would ye wander, triflers, tell me where?
As maids neglected, do ye fondly dote,
On the tair type, or the embroider'd coat;
Detest my modest shelf, and long to fly
Where princely Popes and mighty Miltons lie?
Taught but to sing, and that in simple style,
Of Lycia's lip, and Musidora's smile; -
Go then! and taste a yet unfelt distress,
The fear that guards the captivating press;
Whose maddening region should ye once explore,
No refuge yields my tongueless mansion more.
But thus ye'll grieve, Ambition's plumage stript,
'Ah, would to Heaven, we'd died in manuscript!'
Your unsoil'd page each yawning wit shall flee,
- For few will read, and none admire like me. -
Its place, where spiders silent bards enrobe,
Squeezed betwixt Cibber's Odes and Blackmore's Job;
Where froth and mud, that varnish and deform,
Feed the lean critic and the fattening worm;
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poem by George Crabbe
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