Living in the splendor of this city,
With all the wealth on short display;
Spring is blooming now, but some will pity
Summer’s heat and winter’s gray.
Leaves will fade in time to yellow from green,
Dried up too soon, and blown away,
Until the Arctic chill comes down unseen
In a season with its own decay.
Outside, in light, I feel the sun’s warm love,
And in the dark, a moonlit sigh;
Memories once buried, now brought above,
Like birds that fly the midnight sky.
With us there rade a Maister-Cook that came
From the Rochelle which is neere Angouleme.
Littel hee was, but rounder than a topp,
And his small berd hadde dipped in manie a soppe,
His honde was smoother than beseemeth mann's,
And his discoorse was all of marzipans,
Of tripes of Caen, or Burdeux snailes swote,
And Seinte Menhoulde wher cooken pigges-foote.
To Thoulouse and to Bress and Carcasson
For pyes and fowles and chesnottes hadde hee wonne,
Of hammes of Thuringie colde hee prate,
Pacience is a poynt, þa33e,
& quo for þro may no3t þole, þe þikker he sufferes.
&Thorn;en is better to abyde þe bur vmbestoundes
&Thorn;en ay þrow forth my þro, þa33e masse,
How Mathew melede þat his Mayster His meyny con teche.
A3t happes He hem hy3t & vcheon a mede,
Sunderlupes, for hit dissert, vpon a ser wyse:
Thay arn happen þat han in hert pouerte,
For hores is þe heuen-ryche to holde for euer;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat haunte mekenesse,
Don Juan Canto the Eleventh
When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter,"
And proved it--'twas no matter what he sald:
They say his system 'tis in vain to batter,
Too subtle for the airiest human head;
And yet who can believe it! I would shatter
Gladly all matters down to stone or lead,
Or adamant, to find the World a spirit,
And wear my head, denying that I wear it.
This is the Chapel: here, my son,
Your father thought the thoughts of youth,
And heard the words that one by one
The touch of Life has turn’d to truth.
Here in a day that is not far,
You too may speak with noble ghosts
Of manhood and the vows of war
You made before the Lord of Hosts.
To set the cause above renown,
To love the game beyond the prize,
To honour, while you strike him down,
The foe that comes with fearless eyes;
To count the life of battle good,
And dear the land that gave you birth,
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journey's end in lovers' meeting--
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,--
Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
Apple-Pie and Cheese
Full many a sinful notion
Conceived of foreign powers
Has come across the ocean
To harm this land of ours;
And heresies called fashions
Have modesty effaced,
And baleful, morbid passions
Corrupt our native taste.
O tempora! O mores!
What profanations these
That seek to dim the glories
Of apple-pie and cheese!
I'm glad my education
Enables me to stand
Against the vile temptation
Held out on every hand;
Eschewing all the tittles
With vanity replete,