I and my cousin Wildair met
And tossed a pot together;—
Burnt sack it was that Molly brewed,
For it was nipping weather.
’Fore George! To see Dick buss the wench
Set all the inn folk laughing!
They dubbed him pearl of cavaliers
At kissing and at quaffing.
“Oddsfish!” says Dick, “the sack is rare,
And rarely...
Praise to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days—
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let Thy praise our tongues employ!
For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the vine’s exalted juice,
For the generous olive’s use;
Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripened...
To write a verse or two is all the praise
That I can raise;
Mend my estate in any wayes,
Thou shalt have more.
I go to church; help me to wings, and I
Will thither flie;
Or, if I mount unto the skie,
I will do more.
Man is all weaknesse: there is no such thing...
From the Latin by John Mason Neale
[The poem De Contemptu Mundi was written by Bernard de Morlaix, Monk of Cluni. The translation following is of a portion of the poem distinguished by the sub-title “Laus Patriæ Cœlestis.”]
THE WORLD is very evil,
The times are waxing late;
Be sober and keep vigil,
The Judge is at the gate,—
The Judge that...
Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares,
Anxious sighs, untimely tears,
Fly, fly to courts,
Fly to fond worldlings’ sports,
Where strained sardonic smiles are glozing still,
And grief is forced to laugh against her will,
Where mirth ’s but mummery,
And sorrows only real be.
Fly from our country pastimes, fly...
Praise it — 'tis dead —
It cannot glow —
Warm this inclement Ear
With the encomium it earned
Since it was gathered here —
Invest this alabaster Zest
In the Delights of Dust —
Remitted — since it flitted it
In recusance august.
