Written by
Ben Jonson |
VIII. ? SONG. ? TO SICKNESS. To thy altars, by their nights Spent in surfeits ; and their days, And nights too, in worser ways ? Take heed, Sickness, what you do, I shall fear you'll surfeit too. Live not we, as all thy stalls,And this age will build no more. 'Pray thee, feed contented then, Sickness, only on us men ; Or if it needs thy lust will taste Woman-kind ; devour the waste Livers, round about the town. But, forgive me, ? with thy crown They maintain the truest trade,10 Daintiness, and softer ease, Sleeked limbs, and finest blood ? If thy leanness love such food, There are those, that for thy sake, Do enough ; and who would take Any pains : yea, think it price, To become thy sacrifice. That distill, their husbands' land Lying for the spirit of amber. That for the oil of talc dare spend More than citizens dare lend Them, and all their officers. That to make all pleasure theirs, Will by coach, and water go, Every stew in town to know ; Dare entail their loves on any, Play away health, wealth, and fame. These, Disease, will thee deserve ; And will long, ere thou should'st starve, On their beds, most prostitute, Move it, as their humblest suit, In thy justice to molest None but them, and leave the rest.
Ladies, and of them the best? Do not men enow of rights To thy altars, by their nights Spent in surfeits ; and their days, And nights too, in worser ways ? Take heed, Sickness, what you do, I shall fear you'll surfeit too. Live not we, as all thy stalls,
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Written by
William Butler Yeats |
There was a man whom Sorrow named his Friend,
And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming,
Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming
And humming Sands, where windy surges wend:
And he called loudly to the stars to bend
From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they
Among themselves laugh on and sing alway:
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Cried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story.!
The sea Swept on and cried her old cry still,
Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill.
He fled the persecution of her glory
And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping,
Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening.
But naught they heard, for they are always listening,
The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping.
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Sought once again the shore, and found a shell,
And thought, I will my heavy story tell
Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send
Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart;
And my own talc again for me shall sing,
And my own whispering words be comforting,
And lo! my ancient burden may depart.
Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim;
But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone
Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan
Among her wildering whirls, forgetting him.
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