Written by
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz |
(Español)
Hombres necios que acusáis
a la mujer sin razón,
sin ver que sois la ocasión
de lo mismo que culpáis:
si con ansia sin igual
solicitáis su desdén,
¿por qué quereis que obren bien
si las incitáis al mal?
Combatís su resistencia
y luego, con gravedad,
decís que fue liviandad
lo que hizo la diligencia.
Parecer quiere el denuedo
de vuestro parecer loco,
al niño que pone el coco
y luego le tiene miedo.
Queréis, con presunción necia,
hallar a la que buscáis,
para pretendida, Thais,
y en la posesión, Lucrecia
¿Qué humor puede ser más raro
que el que, falto de consejo,
el mismo empaña el espejo
y siente que no esté claro?
Con el favor y el desdén
tenéis condición igual,
quejándoos, si os tratan mal,
burlándoos, si os quieren bien.
Opinión, ninguna gana:
pues la que más se recata,
si no os admite, es ingrata,
y si os admite, es liviana
Siempre tan necios andáis
que, con desigual nivel,
a una culpáis por crüel
y a otra por fácil culpáis.
¿Pues cómo ha de estar templada
la que vuestro amor pretende,
si la que es ingrata, ofende,
y la que es fácil, enfada?
Mas, entre el enfado y pena
que vuestro gusto refiere,
bien haya la que no os quiere
y quejaos en hora buena.
Dan vuestras amantes penas
a sus libertades alas,
y después de hacerlas malas
las queréis hallar muy buenas.
¿Cuál mayor culpa ha tenido
en una pasión errada:
la que cae de rogada
o el que ruega de caído?
¿O cuál es más de culpar,
aunque cualquiera mal haga:
la que peca por la paga
o el que paga por pecar?
Pues ¿para quée os espantáis
de la culpa que tenéis?
Queredlas cual las hacéis
o hacedlas cual las buscáis.
Dejad de solicitar,
y después, con más razón,
acusaréis la afición
de la que os fuere a rogar.
Bien con muchas armas fundo
que lidia vuestra arrogancia,
pues en promesa e instancia
juntáis diablo, carne y mundo.
(English)
Silly, you men-so very adept
at wrongly faulting womankind,
not seeing you're alone to blame
for faults you plant in woman's mind.
After you've won by urgent plea
the right to tarnish her good name,
you still expect her to behave--
you, that coaxed her into shame.
You batter her resistance down
and then, all righteousness, proclaim
that feminine frivolity,
not your persistence, is to blame.
When it comes to bravely posturing,
your witlessness must take the prize:
you're the child that makes a bogeyman,
and then recoils in fear and cries.
Presumptuous beyond belief,
you'd have the woman you pursue
be Thais when you're courting her,
Lucretia once she falls to you.
For plain default of common sense,
could any action be so *****
as oneself to cloud the mirror,
then complain that it's not clear?
Whether you're favored or disdained,
nothing can leave you satisfied.
You whimper if you're turned away,
you sneer if you've been gratified.
With you, no woman can hope to score;
whichever way, she's bound to lose;
spurning you, she's ungrateful--
succumbing, you call her lewd.
Your folly is always the same:
you apply a single rule
to the one you accuse of looseness
and the one you brand as cruel.
What happy mean could there be
for the woman who catches your eye,
if, unresponsive, she offends,
yet whose complaisance you decry?
Still, whether it's torment or anger--
and both ways you've yourselves to blame--
God bless the woman who won't have you,
no matter how loud you complain.
It's your persistent entreaties
that change her from timid to bold.
Having made her thereby naughty,
you would have her good as gold.
So where does the greater guilt lie
for a passion that should not be:
with the man who pleads out of baseness
or the woman debased by his plea?
Or which is more to be blamed--
though both will have cause for chagrin:
the woman who sins for money
or the man who pays money to sin?
So why are you men all so stunned
at the thought you're all guilty alike?
Either like them for what you've made them
or make of them what you can like.
If you'd give up pursuing them,
you'd discover, without a doubt,
you've a stronger case to make
against those who seek you out.
I well know what powerful arms
you wield in pressing for evil:
your arrogance is allied
with the world, the flesh, and the devil!
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Written by
Isaac Watts |
Secret devotion and spiritual-mindedness.
ver. 147,55
To thee, before the dawning light
My gracious God, I pray;
I meditate thy name by night,
And keep thy law by day.
ver. 81
My spirit faints to see thy grace,
Thy promise bears me up;
And while salvation long delays,
Thy word supports my hope.
ver. 164
Seven times a day I lift my hands,
And pay my thanks to thee;
Thy righteous providence demands
Repeated praise from me.
ver. 62
When midnight darkness veils the skies,
I call thy works to mind;
My thoughts in warm devotion rise,
And sweet acceptance find.
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Written by
John Gould Fletcher |
ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;
Merry springtime's harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim;
All dear Nature's children sweet
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough hoar,
Nor chattering pye,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
|
Written by
Isaac Watts |
Courage and perseverance under persecution.
ver. 143, 28
When pain and anguish seize me, Lord,
All my support is from thy word:
My soul dissolves for heaviness;
Uphold me with thy strength'ning grace.
ver. 51,69,110
The proud have framed their scoffs and lies,
They watch my feet with envious eyes,
And tempt my soul to snares and sin,
Yet thy commands I ne'er decline.
ver. 161,78
They hate me, Lord, without a cause,
They hate to see me love thy laws;
But I will trust and fear thy name,
Till pride and malice die with shame.
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Written by
John Berryman |
There is an eye, there was a slit.
Nights walk, and confer on him fear.
The strangler tree, the dancing mouse
confound his vision; then they loosen it.
Henry widens. How did Henry House
himself ever come here?
Nights run. Tes yeux bizarres me suivent
when loth at landfall soft I leave.
The soldiers, Coleridge Rilke Poe,
shout commands I never heard.
They march about, dying & absurd.
Toddlers are taking over. O
ver! Sabbath belling. Snoods converge
on a weary-daring man.
What now can be cleard up? from the Yard the visitors urge.
Belle thro' the graves in a blast of sun
to the kirk moves the youngest witch.
Watch.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 210] SESTINA VIII. Là ver l' aurora, che sì dolce l' aura. SHE IS MOVED NEITHER BY HIS VERSES NOR HIS TEARS. When music warbles from each thorn,And Zephyr's dewy wingsSweep the young flowers; what time the mornHer crimson radiance flings:Then, as the smiling year renews,I feel renew'd Love's tender pain;Renew'd is Laura's cold disdain;And I for comfort court the weeping muse. Oh! could my sighs in accents flowSo musically lorn,That thou might'st catch my am'rous woe,And cease, proud Maid! thy scorn:Yet, ere within thy icy breastThe smallest spark of passion's found,Winter's cold temples shall be boundWith all the blooms that paint spring's glowing vest. The drops that bathe the grief-dew'd eye,The love-impassion'd strainTo move thy flinty bosom tryFull oft;—but, ah! in vainWould tears, and melting song avail;As vainly might the silken breeze,That bends the flowers, that fans the trees,Some rugged rock's tremendous brow assail. Both gods and men alike are sway'dBy Love, as poets tell;—And I, when flowers in every shadeTheir bursting gems reveal,First felt his all-subduing power:While Laura knows not yet the smart;Nor heeds the tortures of my heart,My prayers, my plaints, and sorrow's pearly shower! Thy wrongs, my soul! with patience bear,While life shall warm this clay;And soothing sounds to Laura's earMy numbers shall convey;[Pg 211]Numbers with forceful magic charmAll nature o'er the frost-bound earth,Wake summer's fragrant buds to birth,And the fierce serpent of its rage disarm. The blossom'd shrubs in smiles are drest,Now laughs his purple plain;And shall the nymph a foe profestTo tenderness remain?But oh! what solace shall I find,If fortune dooms me yet to bearThe frowns of my relentless Fair,Save with soft moan to vex the pitying wind?In baffling nets the light-wing'd galeI'd fetter as it blows,The vernal rose that scents the valeI'd cull on wintery snows;Still I'd ne'er hope that mind to moveWhich dares defy the wiles of verse, and Love. Anon. 1777.
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Written by
Federico García Lorca |
Voces de muerte sonaron
cerca del Guadalquivir.
Voces antiguas que cercan
voz de clavel varonil.
Les clav? sobre las botas
mordiscos de jabal?.
En la lucha daba saltos
jabonados de delf?n.
Ba?o con sangre enemiga
su corbata carmes?,
pero eran cuatro pu?ales
y tuvo que sucumbir.
Cuando las estrellas clavan
rejones al agua gris,
cuando los erales sue?an
ver?nicas de alhel?,
voces de muerte sonaron
cerca del Guadalquivir.
Antonio Torres Heredia,
Camborio de dura crin,
moreno de verde luna,
voz de clavel varonil:
?qui?n te ha quitado la vida
cerca del Guadalquivir?
Mis cuatro primos Heredias
hijos de Benamej?.
Lo que en otros no envidiaban,
ya lo envidiaban en m?.
Zapatos color corinto,
medallones de marfil,
y este cutis amasado
con aceituna y jazm?n.
?Ay Anto?ito el Camborio,
digno de una Emperatriz!
Acu?rate de la Virgen
porque te vas a morir.
?Ay Federico Garc?a,
llama a la Guardia Civil!
Ya mi talle se ha quebrado
como ca?a de ma?z.
Tres golpes de sangre tuvo
y se muri? de perfil.
Viva moneda que nunca
se volver? a repetir.
Un ?ngel marchoso pone
su cabeza en un coj?n.
Otros de rubor cansado,
encendieron un candil.
Y cuando los cuatro primos
llegan a Benamej?,
voces de muerte cesaron
cerca del Guadalquivir.
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Written by
Isaac Watts |
Imperfection of nature, and perfection of scripture.
ver. 96, paraphrased.
Let all the heathen writers join
To form one perfect book;
Great God! if once compared with thine,
How mean their writings look!
Not the most perfect rules they gave
Could show one sin forgiv'n,
Nor lead a step beyond the grave;
But thine conduct to heav'n.
I've seen an end to what we call
Perfection here below;
How short the powers of nature fall,
And can no further go!
Yet men would fain be just with God
By works their hands have wrought;
But thy commands, exceeding broad,
Extend to every thought.
In vain we boast perfection here,
While sin defiles our frame,
And sinks our virtues down so far,
They scarce deserve the name.
Our faith, and love, and every grace,
Fall far below thy word;
But perfect truth and righteousness
Dwell only with the Lord.
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Written by
Isaac Watts |
Delight in Scripture; or, The word of God dwelling in us.
ver. 97
O how I love thy holy law!
'Tis daily my delight;
And thence my meditations draw
Divine advice by night.
ver. 148
My waking eyes prevent the day
To meditate thy word;
My soul with longing melts away
To hear thy gospel, Lord.
ver. 3,13,54
How doth thy word my heart engage!
How well employ my tongue!
And in my tiresome pilgrimage,
Yields me a heav'nly song.
ver. 19,103
Am I a stranger or at home,
'Tis my perpetual feast;
Not honey dropping from the comb
So much allures the taste.
ver. 72,127
No treasures so enrich the mind;
Nor shall thy word be sold
For loads of silver well refined,
Nor heaps of choicest gold.
ver. 28,49,175
When nature sinks, and spirits droop,
Thy promises of grace
Are pillars to support my hope,
And there I write thy praise.
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Written by
Isaac Watts |
Benefit of afflictions, and support under them.
ver. 153,81,82
Consider all my sorrows, Lord,
And thy deliv'rance send;
My soul for thy salvation faints
When will my troubles end?
ver. 71
Yet I have found 'tis good for me
To bear my Father's rod;
Afflictions make me learn thy law,
And live upon my God.
ver. 50
This is the comfort I enjoy
When new distress begins-
I read thy word, I run thy way,
And hate my former sins.
ver. 92
Had not thy word been my delight
When earthly joys were fled,
My soul, oppressed with sorrow's weight
Had sunk amongst the dead.
ver. 75
I know thy judgments, Lord, are right,
Though they may seem severe;
The sharpest suff'rings I endure
Flow from thy faithful care.
ver. 67
Before I knew thy chast'ning rod
My feet were apt to stray;
But now I learn to keep thy word,
Nor wander from thy way.
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