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Best Famous Client Poems

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Written by Jonathan Swift | Create an image from this poem

The Beasts Confession

 To the Priest, on Observing how most Men mistake their own Talents
When beasts could speak (the learned say, 
They still can do so ev'ry day),
It seems, they had religion then,
As much as now we find in men.
It happen'd, when a plague broke out (Which therefore made them more devout), The king of brutes (to make it plain, Of quadrupeds I only mean) By proclamation gave command, That ev'ry subject in the land Should to the priest confess their sins; And thus the pious wolf begins: "Good father, I must own with shame, That often I have been to blame: I must confess, on Friday last, Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: But I defy the basest tongue To prove I did my neighbour wrong; Or ever went to seek my food By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.
" The ass, approaching next, confess'd That in his heart he lov'd a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own, And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not spare, And might perhaps be too severe: But yet, the worst that could be said, He was a wit both born and bred; And, if it be a sin or shame, Nature alone must bear the blame: One fault he hath, is sorry for't, His ears are half a foot too short; Which could he to the standard bring, He'd show his face before the King: Then for his voice, there's none disputes That he's the nightingale of brutes.
The swine with contrite heart allow'd, His shape and beauty made him proud: In diet was perhaps too nice, But gluttony was ne'er his vice: In ev'ry turn of life content, And meekly took what fortune sent: Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbour ne'er was found: His vigilance might some displease; 'Tis true he hated sloth like peas.
The mimic ape began his chatter, How evil tongues his life bespatter: Much of the cens'ring world complain'd, Who said, his gravity was feign'd: Indeed, the strictness of his morals Engag'd him in a hundred quarrels: He saw, and he was griev'd to see't, His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: He found his virtues too severe For our corrupted times to bear: Yet, such a lewd licentious age Might well excuse a Stoic's rage.
The goat advanc'd with decent pace; And first excus'd his youthful face; Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd ('Twas nature's fault) without a beard.
'Tis true, he was not much inclin'd To fondness for the female kind; Not, as his enemies object, From chance, or natural defect; Not by his frigid constitution, But through a pious resolution; For he had made a holy vow Of chastity as monks do now; Which he resolv'd to keep for ever hence, As strictly too, as doth his Reverence.
Apply the tale, and you shall find, How just it suits with human kind.
Some faults we own: but, can you guess? Why?--virtues carried to excess, Wherewith our vanity endows us, Though neither foe nor friend allows us.
The lawyer swears, you may rely on't, He never squeez'd a needy client; And this he makes his constant rule, For which his brethren call him fool: His conscience always was so nice, He freely gave the poor advice; By which he lost, he may affirm, A hundred fees last Easter term.
While others of the learned robe Would break the patience of a Job; No pleader at the bar could match His diligence and quick dispatch; Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, Above a term or two at most.
The cringing knave, who seeks a place Without success, thus tells his case: Why should he longer mince the matter? He fail'd because he could not flatter; He had not learn'd to turn his coat, Nor for a party give his vote: His crime he quickly understood; Too zealous for the nation's good: He found the ministers resent it, Yet could not for his heart repent it.
The chaplain vows he cannot fawn, Though it would raise him to the lawn: He pass'd his hours among his books; You find it in his meagre looks: He might, if he were worldly wise, Preferment get and spare his eyes: But own'd he had a stubborn spirit, That made him trust alone in merit: Would rise by merit to promotion; Alas! a mere chimeric notion.
The doctor, if you will believe him, Confess'd a sin; and God forgive him! Call'd up at midnight, ran to save A blind old beggar from the grave: But see how Satan spreads his snares; He quite forgot to say his prayers.
He cannot help it for his heart Sometimes to act the parson's part: Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, That moves his patients to repentance: And, when his med'cines do no good, Supports their minds with heav'nly food, At which, however well intended, He hears the clergy are offended; And grown so bold behind his back, To call him hypocrite and quack.
In his own church he keeps a seat; Says grace before and after meat; And calls, without affecting airs, His household twice a day to prayers.
He shuns apothecaries' shops; And hates to cram the sick with slops: He scorns to make his art a trade; Nor bribes my lady's fav'rite maid.
Old nurse-keepers would never hire To recommend him to the squire; Which others, whom he will not name, Have often practis'd to their shame.
The statesman tells you with a sneer, His fault is to be too sincere; And, having no sinister ends, Is apt to disoblige his friends.
The nation's good, his master's glory, Without regard to Whig or Tory, Were all the schemes he had in view; Yet he was seconded by few: Though some had spread a hundred lies, 'Twas he defeated the Excise.
'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion, That standing troops were his aversion: His practice was, in ev'ry station, To serve the King, and please the nation.
Though hard to find in ev'ry case The fittest man to fill a place: His promises he ne'er forgot, But took memorials on the spot: His enemies, for want of charity, Said he affected popularity: 'Tis true, the people understood, That all he did was for their good; Their kind affections he has tried; No love is lost on either side.
He came to Court with fortune clear, Which now he runs out ev'ry year: Must, at the rate that he goes on, Inevitably be undone: Oh! if his Majesty would please To give him but a writ of ease, Would grant him licence to retire, As it hath long been his desire, By fair accounts it would be found, He's poorer by ten thousand pound.
He owns, and hopes it is no sin, He ne'er was partial to his kin; He thought it base for men in stations To crowd the Court with their relations; His country was his dearest mother, And ev'ry virtuous man his brother; Through modesty or awkward shame (For which he owns himself to blame), He found the wisest man he could, Without respect to friends or blood; Nor ever acts on private views, When he hath liberty to choose.
The sharper swore he hated play, Except to pass an hour away: And well he might; for, to his cost, By want of skill he always lost; He heard there was a club of cheats, Who had contriv'd a thousand feats; Could change the stock, or cog a die, And thus deceive the sharpest eye: Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, His brothers fleece him when he's drunk.
I own the moral not exact; Besides, the tale is false in fact; And so absurd, that could I raise up From fields Elysian fabling Aesop; I would accuse him to his face For libelling the four-foot race.
Creatures of ev'ry kind but ours Well comprehend their natural pow'rs; While we, whom reason ought to sway, Mistake our talents ev'ry day.
The ass was never known so stupid To act the part of Tray or Cupid; Nor leaps upon his master's lap, There to be strok'd, and fed with pap, As Aesop would the world persuade; He better understands his trade: Nor comes, whene'er his lady whistles; But carries loads, and feeds on thistles.
Our author's meaning, I presume, is A creature bipes et implumis; Wherein the moralist design'd A compliment on human kind: For here he owns, that now and then Beasts may degenerate into men.


Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

The Lawyers Ways

 I've been list'nin' to them lawyers 
In the court house up the street,
An' I've come to the conclusion
That I'm most completely beat.
Fust one feller riz to argy, An' he boldly waded in As he dressed the tremblin' pris'ner In a coat o' deep-dyed sin.
Why, he painted him all over In a hue o' blackest crime, An' he smeared his reputation With the thickest kind o' grime, Tell I found myself a-wond'rin', In a misty way and dim, How the Lord had come to fashion Sich an awful man as him.
Then the other lawyer started, An' with brimmin', tearful eyes, Said his client was a martyr That was brought to sacrifice.
An' he give to that same pris'ner Every blessed human grace, Tell I saw the light o' virtue Fairly shinin' from his face.
Then I own 'at I was puzzled How sich things could rightly be; An' this aggervatin' question Seems to keep a-puzzlin' me.
So, will some one please inform me, An' this mystery unroll-- How an angel an' a devil Can persess the self-same soul?
Written by Alain Bosquet | Create an image from this poem

What Forgotten Realm?

 Let me introduce to you
my poetry: it's an island flying
from book to book
searching for
the page where it was born,
then stops at my house, both wings wounded,
for its meals of flesh and cold phrases.
I paid dearly for the poem's visit! My best words lie down to sleep in the nettles, my greenest syllables dream of a silence as young as themselves.
Offer me the horizon which no longer dares to swim across even one book.
I will give you this sonnet in return: in that place live the birds signed by the ocean; and also these exalted consonants from which can be seen the brain tumors of stars.
Manufacturers of equators, to what client, to what wanderer who knows neither how to read nor love, have you resold my poem, that smiling predator who at each syllable leapt for my throat? My language is at half-mast since my syllables fled for safety, carrying with them, as one carries wedding gifts, all my spare sunrises.
My poem, as much as I dismiss you like a valet who for twenty-five years has been stealing my manuscript snows; as much as I walk you on a leash like a poodle that fears to tread the dawn; as much as I caress you, with an equator around your neck which devours my other images one by one, at each breath I begin you again, at each breath you become my epitaph.
A duel took place between the words and their syllables.
followed by the execution of overly rich poems.
The language bled, the last vowel surrendered.
Already the great reptiles were being conjugated.
Here is my last will and testament: the panther which follows my alphabet must devour it, if it turns back.
© 2001 translated by F.
J.
Bergmann
Written by Ben Jonson | Create an image from this poem

On Cheveril the Lawyer


XXXVII.
 — ON CHEVERIL THE LAWYER.
  
No cause, nor client fat, will CHEVERIL leese,
But as they come, on both sides he takes fees,
And pleaseth both : for while he melts his grease,
For this ; that wins, for whom he holds his peace.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

THE LAWYERS' WAYS

I 've been list'nin' to them lawyers
In the court house up the street,
An' I 've come to the conclusion
That I'm most completely beat.
Fust one feller riz to argy,
An' he boldly waded in
As he dressed the tremblin' pris'ner
In a coat o' deep-dyed sin.
Why, he painted him all over
In a hue o' blackest crime,
An' he smeared his reputation
With the thickest kind o' grime,
Tell I found myself a-wond'rin',
In a misty way and dim,
How the Lord had come to fashion
Sich an awful man as him.
Then the other lawyer started,
An' with brimmin', tearful eyes,
Said his client was a martyr
That was brought to sacrifice.
An' he give to that same pris'ner
Every blessed human grace,
Tell I saw the light o' virtue
Fairly shinin' from his face.
Then I own 'at I was puzzled
How sich things could rightly be;
An' this aggervatin' question
Seems to keep a-puzzlin' me.
So, will some one please inform me,
An' this mystery unroll—
How an angel an' a devil
Can persess the self-same soul?


Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 86: Op. posth. no. 9

 The conclusion is growing .
.
.
I feel sure, my lord, this august court will entertain the plea Not Guilty by reason of death.
I can say no more except that for the record I add that all the crimes since all the times he died will be due to the breath of unknown others, sweating in theri guilt while my client Henry's brow of stainless steel rests free, as well it may, of all such turbulence, whereof not built Henry lies clear as any onion-peel in any sandwich, say.
He spiced us: there, my lord, the wicked fault lodges: we judged him when we did not know and we did judge him wrong, lying incapable of crime save salt preservative in cases here below adduced.
Not to prolong
Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem

HIS WINDING-SHEET

 Come thou, who art the wine and wit
Of all I've writ;
The grace, the glory, and the best
Piece of the rest;
Thou art of what I did intend
The All, and End;
And what was made, was made to meet.
Thee, thee my sheet.
Come then, and be to my chaste side Both bed and bride.
We two, as reliques left, will have One rest, one grave; And, hugging close, we need not fear Lust entering here, Where all desires are dead or cold, As is the mould; And all affections are forgot, Or trouble not.
Here, here the slaves and prisoners be From shackles free; And weeping widows, long opprest, Do here find rest.
The wronged client ends his laws Here, and his cause; Here those long suits of Chancery lie Quiet, or die; And all Star-chamber bills do cease, Or hold their peace.
Here needs no court for our Request Where all are best; All wise, all equal, and all just Alike i'th' dust.
Nor need we here to fear the frown Of court or crown; Where fortune bears no sway o'er things, There all are kings.
In this securer place we'll keep, As lull'd asleep; Or for a little time we'll lie, As robes laid by, To be another day re-worn, Turn'd, but not torn; Or like old testaments engrost, Lock'd up, not lost; And for a-while lie here conceal'd, To be reveal'd Next, at that great Platonic year, And then meet here.

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