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Best Famous Intrigues Poems

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Written by John Dryden | Create an image from this poem

Heroic Stanzas

 Consecrated to the Glorious Memory of His 
Most Serene and Renowned Highness, Oliver,
Late Lord Protector of This Commonwealth, etc.
(Oliver Cromwell)

Written After the Celebration of his Funeral 


1

And now 'tis time; for their officious haste, 
Who would before have borne him to the sky, 
Like eager Romans ere all rites were past 
Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly. 

2

Though our best notes are treason to his fame 
Join'd with the loud applause of public voice; 
Since Heav'n, what praise we offer to his name, 
Hath render'd too authentic by its choice; 

3

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be, 
Since they whose Muses have the highest flown 
Add not to his immortal memory, 
But do an act of friendship to their own; 

4

Yet 'tis our duty and our interest too 
Such monuments as we can build to raise, 
Lest all the world prevent what we should do 
And claim a title in him by their praise. 

5

How shall I then begin, or where conclude 
To draw a fame so truly circular? 
For in a round what order can be shew'd, 
Where all the parts so equal perfect are? 

6

His grandeur he deriv'd from Heav'n alone, 
For he was great ere fortune made him so, 
And wars like mists that rise against the sun 
Made him but greater seem, not greater grown. 

7

No borrow'd bays his temples did adorn, 
But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring. 
Nor was his virtue poison'd soon as born 
With the too early thoughts of being king. 

8

Fortune (that easy mistress of the young 
But to her ancient servant coy and hard) 
Him at that age her favorites rank'd among 
When she her best-lov'd Pompey did discard. 

9

He, private, mark'd the faults of others' sway, 
And set as sea-marks for himself to shun, 
Not like rash monarchs who their youth betray 
By acts their age too late would wish undone. 

10

And yet dominion was not his design; 
We owe that blessing not to him but Heaven, 
Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join, 
Rewards that less to him than us were given. 

11

Our former chiefs like sticklers of the war 
First sought t'inflame the parties, then to poise, 
The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor, 
And did not strike to hurt but make a noise. 

12

War, our consumption, was their gainfull trade; 
We inward bled whilst they prolong'd our pain; 
He fought to end our fighting and assay'd 
To stanch the blood by breathing of the vein. 

13

Swift and resistless through the land he pass'd 
Like that bold Greek who did the east subdue, 
And made to battles such heroic haste 
As if on wings of victory he flew. 

14

He fought secure of fortune as of fame, 
Till by new maps the island might be shown, 
Of conquests which he strew'd where'er he came 
Thick as a galaxy with stars is sown. 

15

His palms, though under weights they did not stand, 
Still thriv'd; no winter could his laurels fade; 
Heav'n in his portrait shew'd a workman's hand 
And drew it perfect yet without a shade. 

16

Peace was the prize of all his toils and care, 
Which war had banish'd and did now restore; 
Bologna's walls thus mounted in the air 
To seat themselves more surely than before. 

17

Her safety rescu'd Ireland to him owes, 
And treacherous Scotland, to no int'rest true, 
Yet bless'd that fate which did his arms dispose 
Her land to civilize as to subdue. 

18

Nor was he like those stars which only shine 
When to pale mariners they storms portend; 
He had his calmer influence, and his mien 
Did love and majesty together blend. 

19

'Tis true, his count'nance did imprint an awe, 
And naturally all souls to his did bow, 
As wands of divination downward draw 
And points to beds where sov'reign gold doth grow. 

20

When past all offerings to Feretrian Jove, 
He Mars depos'd and arms to gowns made yield; 
Successful councils did him soon approve 
As fit for close intrigues as open field. 

21

To suppliant Holland he vouchsaf'd a peace, 
Our once bold rival in the British main, 
Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease 
And buy our friendship with her idol, gain. 

22

Fame of th' asserted sea through Europe blown 
Made France and Spain ambitious of his love; 
Each knew that side must conquer he would own, 
And for him fiercely as for empire strove. 

23

No sooner was the Frenchman's cause embrac'd 
Than the light monsieur the grave don outweigh'd; 
His fortune turn'd the scale where it was cast, 
Though Indian mines were in the other laid. 

24

When absent, yet we conquer'd in his right, 
For though some meaner artist's skill were shown 
In mingling colours, or in placing light, 
Yet still the fair designment was his own. 

25

For from all tempers he could service draw; 
The worth of each with its alloy he knew, 
And as the confidant of Nature saw 
How she complexions did divide and brew. 

26

Or he their single virtues did survey 
By intuition in his own large breast, 
Where all the rich ideas of them lay, 
That were the rule and measure to the rest. 

27

When such heroic virtue Heav'n sets out, 
The stars like Commons sullenly obey, 
Because it drains them when it comes about, 
And therefore is a tax they seldom pay. 

28

From this high spring our foreign conquests flow, 
Which yet more glorious triumphs do portend, 
Since their commencement to his arms they owe, 
If springs as high as fountains may ascend. 

29

He made us freemen of the continent 
Whom Nature did like captives treat before, 
To nobler preys the English lion sent, 
And taught him first in Belgian walks to roar. 

30

That old unquestion'd pirate of the land, 
Proud Rome, with dread the fate of Dunkirk heard, 
And trembling wish'd behind more Alps to stand, 
Although an Alexander were here guard. 

31

By his command we boldly cross'd the line 
And bravely fought where southern stars arise, 
We trac'd the far-fetch'd gold unto the mine 
And that which brib'd our fathers made our prize. 

32

Such was our prince; yet own'd a soul above 
The highest acts it could produce to show: 
Thus poor mechanic arts in public move 
Whilst the deep secrets beyond practice go. 

33

Nor di'd he when his ebbing fame went less, 
But when fresh laurels courted him to live; 
He seem'd but to prevent some new success, 
As if above what triumphs earth could give. 

34

His latest victories still thickest came, 
As near the center motion does increase, 
Till he, press'd down by his own weighty name, 
Did, like the vestal, under spoils decrease. 

35

But first the ocean as a tribute sent 
That giant prince of all her watery herd, 
And th' isle when her protecting genius went 
Upon his obsequies loud sighs conferr'd. 

36

No civil broils have since his death arose, 
But faction now by habit does obey, 
And wars have that respect for his repose, 
As winds for halycons when they breed at sea. 

37

His ashes in a peaceful urn shall rest; 
His name a great example stands to show 
How strangely high endeavours may be blest, 
Where piety and valour jointly go.


Written by John Wilmot | Create an image from this poem

Tunbridge Wells

 At five this morn, when Phoebus raised his head
From Thetis' lap, I raised myself from bed,
And mounting steed, I trotted to the waters
The rendesvous of fools, buffoons, and praters,
Cuckolds, whores, citizens, their wives and daughters.

My squeamish stomach I with wine had bribed
To undertake the dose that was prescribed;
But turning head, a sudden curséd view
That innocent provision overthrew,
And without drinking, made me purge and spew.
From coach and six a thing unweildy rolled,
Whose lumber, card more decently would hold.
As wise as calf it looked, as big as bully,
But handled, proves a mere Sir Nicholas Cully;
A bawling fop, a natural Nokes, and yet
He dares to censure as if he had wit.
To make him more ridiculous, in spite
Nature contrived the fool should be a knight.
Though he alone were dismal signet enough,
His train contributed to set him off,
All of his shape, all of the selfsame stuff.
No spleen or malice need on them be thrown:
Nature has done the business of lampoon,
And in their looks their characters has shown.

Endeavoring this irksome sight to balk,
And a more irksome noise, their silly talk,
I silently slunk down t' th' Lower Walk,
But often when one would Charybdis shun,
Down upon Scilla 'tis one's fate to run,
For here it was my curséd luck to find
As great a fop, though of another kind,
A tall stiff fool that walked in Spanish guise:
The buckram puppet never stirred its eyes,
But grave as owl it looked, as woodcock wise.
He scorns the empty talking of this mad age,
And speaks all proverbs, sentences, and adage;
Can with as much solemnity buy eggs
As a cabal can talk of their intrigues;
Master o' th' Ceremonies, yet can dispense
With the formality of talking sense.

From hence unto the upper walk I ran,
Where a new scene of foppery began.
A tribe of curates, priests, canonical elves,
Fit company for none besides themselves,
Were got together. Each his distemper told,
Scurvy, stone, strangury; some were so bold
To charge the spleen to be their misery,
And on that wise disease brought infamy.
But none had modesty enough t' complain
Their want of learning, honesty, and brain,
The general diseases of that train.
These call themselves ambassadors of heaven,
And saucily pretend commissions given;
But should an Indian king, whose small command
Seldom extends beyond ten miles of land,
Send forth such wretched tools in an ambassage,
He'd find but small effects of such a message.
Listening, I found the cob of all this rabble
Pert Bays, with his importance comfortable.
He, being raised to an archdeaconry
By trampling on religion, liberty,
Was grown to great, and looked too fat and jolly,
To be disturbed with care and melancholy,
Though Marvell has enough exposed his folly.
He drank to carry off some old remains
His lazy dull distemper left in 's veins.
Let him drink on, but 'tis not a whole flood
Can give sufficient sweetness to his blood
To make his nature of his manners good.

Next after these, a fulsome Irish crew
Of silly Macs were offered to my view.
The things did talk, but th' hearing what they said
I did myself the kindness to evade.
Nature has placed these wretches beneath scorn:
They can't be called so vile as they are born.
Amidst the crowd next I myself conveyed,
For now were come, whitewash and paint being laid,
Mother and daughter, mistress and the maid,
And squire with wig and pantaloon displayed.
But ne'er could conventicle, play, or fair
For a true medley, with this herd compare.
Here lords, knights, squires, ladies and countesses,
Chandlers, mum-bacon women, sempstresses
Were mixed together, nor did they agree
More in their humors than their quality.

Here waiting for gallant, young damsel stood,
Leaning on cane, and muffled up in hood.
The would-be wit, whose business was to woo,
With hat removed and solemn scrape of shoe
Advanceth bowing, then genteelly shrugs,
And ruffled foretop into order tugs,
And thus accosts her: "Madam, methinks the weather
Is grown much more serene since you came hither.
You influence the heavens; but should the sun
Withdraw himself to see his rays outdone
By your bright eyes, they would supply the morn,
And make a day before the day be born."
With mouth screwed up, conceited winking eyes,
And breasts thrust forward, "Lord, sir!" she replies.
"It is your goodness, and not my deserts,
Which makes you show this learning, wit, and parts."
He, puzzled, butes his nail, both to display
The sparkling ring, and think what next to say,
And thus breaks forth afresh: "Madam, egad!
Your luck at cards last night was very bad:
At cribbage fifty-nine, and the next show
To make the game, and yet to want those two.
God damn me, madam, I'm the son of a whore
If in my life I saw the like before!"
To peddler's stall he drags her, and her breast
With hearts and such-like foolish toys he dressed;
And then, more smartly to expound the riddle
Of all his prattle, gives her a Scotch fiddle.

Tired with this dismal stuff, away I ran
Where were two wives, with girl just fit for man -
Short-breathed, with pallid lips and visage wan.
Some curtsies past, and the old compliment
Of being glad to see each other, spent,
With hand in hand they lovingly did walk,
And one began thus to renew the talk:
"I pray, good madam, if it may be thought
No rudeness, what cause was it hither brought
Your ladyship?" She soon replying, smiled,
"We have a good estate, but have no child,
And I'm informed these wells will make a barren
Woman as fruitful as a cony warren."
The first returned, "For this cause I am come,
For I can have no quietness at home.
My husband grumbles though we have got one,
This poor young girl, and mutters for a son. 
And this is grieved with headache, pangs, and throes;
Is full sixteen, and never yet had those."
She soon replied, "Get her a husband, madam:
I married at that age, and ne'er had 'em;
Was just like her. Steel waters let alone:
A back of steel will bring 'em better down."
And ten to one but they themselves will try
The same means to increase their family.
Poor foolish fribble, who by subtlety
Of midwife, truest friend to lechery,
Persuaded art to be at pains and charge
To give thy wife occasion to enlarge
Thy silly head! For here walk Cuff and Kick,
With brawny back and legs and potent prick,
Who more substantially will cure thy wife,
And on her half-dead womb bestow new life.
From these the waters got the reputation
Of good assistants unto generation.

Some warlike men were now got into th' throng,
With hair tied back, singing a bawdy song.
Not much afraid, I got a nearer view,
And 'twas my chance to know the dreadful crew.
They were cadets, that seldom can appear:
Damned to the stint of thirty pounds a year.
With hawk on fist, or greyhound led in hand,
The dogs and footboys sometimes they command.
But now, having trimmed a cast-off spavined horse,
With three hard-pinched-for guineas in their purse,
Two rusty pistols, scarf about the ****,
Coat lined with red, they here presume to swell:
This goes for captain, that for colonel.
So the Bear Garden ape, on his steed mounted,
No longer is a jackanapes accounted,
But is, by virtue of his trumpery, then
Called by the name of "the young gentleman."

Bless me! thought I, what thing is man, that thus
In all his shapes, he is ridiculous?
Ourselves with noise of reason we do please
In vain: humanity's our worst disease.
Thrice happy beasts are, who, because they be
Of reason void, and so of foppery.
Faith, I was so ashamed that with remorse
I used the insolence to mount my horse;
For he, doing only things fit for his nature,
Did seem to me by much the wiser creature.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Daddy Warbucks

 In Memoriam

What's missing is the eyeballs
in each of us, but it doesn't matter
because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
You let me touch them, fondle the green faces
lick at their numbers and it lets you be
my "Daddy!" "Daddy!" and though I fought all alone
with molesters and crooks, I knew your money
would save me, your courage, your "I've had
considerable experience as a soldier...
fighting to win millions for myself, it's true.
But I did win," and me praying for "our men out there"
just made it okay to be an orphan whose blood was no one's,
whose curls were hung up on a wire machine and electrified,
while you built and unbuilt intrigues called nations,
and did in the bad ones, always, always,
and always came at my perils, the black Christs of childhood,
always came when my heart stood naked in the street
and they threw apples at it or twelve-day-old-dead-fish.

"Daddy!" "Daddy," we all won that war,
when you sang me the money songs
Annie, Annie you sang
and I knew you drove a pure gold car
and put diamonds in you coke
for the crunchy sound, the adorable sound
and the moon too was in your portfolio,
as well as the ocean with its sleepy dead.
And I was always brave, wasn't I?
I never bled?
I never saw a man expose himself.
No. No.
I never saw a drunkard in his blubber.
I never let lightning go in one car and out the other.
And all the men out there were never to come.
Never, like a deluge, to swim over my breasts
and lay their lamps in my insides.
No. No.
Just me and my "Daddy"
and his tempestuous bucks
rolling in them like corn flakes
and only the bad ones died.

But I died yesterday,
"Daddy," I died,
swallowing the Nazi-Jap animal
and it won't get out
it keeps knocking at my eyes,
my big orphan eyes,
kicking! Until eyeballs pop out
and even my dog puts up his four feet
and lets go
of his military secret
with his big red tongue
flying up and down
like yours should have

as we board our velvet train.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things