Jump to content

jfp

Subscribers
  • Content count

    3,317
  • Joined

  • Last visited

About jfp

  • Rank
    Subscriber
  • Birthday February 20

core_pfieldgroups_99

  • Biography
    jfp = John from Paris [where I've now been "from" for over 28 years]
  • Location
    Paris
  • Interests
    Reading (mainly fiction, in English and French...); baritone in semi-professional choir; pianist.
  • How did you hear about this site?
    Thanks to my Aussie friend Kimberley

Profile Information

  • Gender
    Male
  1. MALCOLM We shall not spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves, And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland In such an honour named. What's more to do, Which would be planted newly with the time, As calling home our exiled friends abroad That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; Producing forth the cruel ministers Of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen, Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands Took off her life; this, and what needful else That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, We will perform in measure, time and place: So, thanks to all at once and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone. Shakespeare, Macbeth V/viii
  2. April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. [...] T.S.Eliot, The Waste Land
  3. Magnificent The morning was, a memorable pomp, More glorious than I ever had beheld. The sea was laughing at a distance; all The solid montains were as bright as clouds, Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light; And in the meadows and the lower grounds Was all the sweetness of a common dawn— Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds, And labourers going forth into the fields. Ah, need I say, dear friend, that to the brim My heart was full? I made no vows, but vows Were then made for me; bond unknown to me Was given, that I should be—else sinning greatly— A dedicated spirit. On I walked In blessedness, which even yet remains. William Wordsworth, The Prelude (1805 edition), Book IV
  4. No, I think not. I think the title is part of the poem, no? IAGO Thus do I ever make my fool my purse: For I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane, If I would time expend with such a snipe. But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor: And it is thought abroad, that 'twixt my sheets He has done my office: I know not if't be true; But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, Will do as if for surety. He holds me well; The better shall my purpose work on him. Cassio's a proper man: let me see now: To get his place and to plume up my will In double knavery—How, how? Let's see:— After some time, to abuse Othello's ear That he is too familiar with his wife. He hath a person and a smooth dispose To be suspected, framed to make women false. The Moor is of a free and open nature, That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, And will as tenderly be led by the nose As asses are. I have't. It is engender'd. Hell and night Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light. Shakespeare, Othello I/iii
  5. When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. W.B.Yeats
  6. O Plato! Plato! you have paved the way, With your confounded fantasies, to more Immoral conduct by the fancied sway Your system feigns o'er the controulless core Of human hearts, than all the long array Of poets and romancers:—You 're a bore, A charlatan, a coxcomb—and have been, At best, no better than a go-between. From Lord Byron, Don Juan, canto I
  7. No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell: Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it, for I love you so That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O if (I say) you look upon this verse, When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay; Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone. Shakespeare, Sonnet 71
  8. The forward violet thus did I chide: 'Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.' The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair; The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both, And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But for his theft, in pride of all his growth, A vengeful canker ate him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee. Shakespeare, Sonnet 99
  9. I know not why, but in that hour to-night, Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, And swept, as ’t were, across their hearts’ delight, Like the wind o’er a harp-string, or a flame, When one is shook in sound, and one in sight; And thus some boding flash’d through either frame, And call’d from Juan’s breast a faint low sigh, While one new tear arose in Haidee’s eye. That large black prophet eye seem’d to dilate And follow far the disappearing sun, As if their last day! of a happy date With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone; Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate- He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, His glance inquired of hers for some excuse For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto IV, lines 161-176
  10. bugle eyeballs: i.e., black beady eyes. —Bugles were black tubular beads much used to decorate clothes in Shakespeare's time. Bugles (now known as bugle beads) are still in use and available today. [http://www.shakespeare-navigators.com/as_you_like_it/AYLI_Note_3_5_47.html]
  11. ROSALIND And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty- As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed- Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature's sale-work. 'Od's my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes too! No faith, proud mistress, hope not after it; 'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame my spirits to your worship. You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favour'd children. 'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her; And out of you she sees herself more proper Than any of her lineaments can show her. But, mistress, know yourself. Down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love; For I must tell you friendly in your ear: Sell when you can; you are not for all markets. Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer; Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well. Shakespeare, As You Like It III/v
  12. CLAUDIO Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness. There, Leonato, take her back again: Give not this rotten orange to your friend; She's but the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold how like a maid she blushes here! O, what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal! Comes not that blood as modest evidence To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear, All you that see her, that she were a maid, By these exterior shows? But she is none: She knows the heat of a luxurious bed; Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing IV/i
  13. FATHER's GHOST Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!- won to his shameful lust The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen. O Hamlet, what a falling-off was there, From me, whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow I made to her in marriage, and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor To those of mine! But virtue, as it never will be mov'd, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven, So lust, though to a radiant angel link'd, Will sate itself in a celestial bed And prey on garbage. Shakespeare, Hamlet I/v
  14. A simple child, dear brother Jim, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl, She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That cluster'd round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair; — Her beauty made me glad. “Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?” “How many? seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. “And where are they, I pray you tell?” She answered, “Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. “Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.” “You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be?” Then did the little Maid reply, “Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree.” “You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five.” “Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, And they are side by side. “My stockings there I often knit, My 'kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit - I sit and sing to them. “And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. “The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain, And then she went away. “So in the church-yard she was laid; And all the summer dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. “And when the ground was white with snow And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.” “How many are you, then," said I, “If they two are in Heaven?” The little Maiden did reply, “O Master! we are seven.” “But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!” ‘Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, “Nay, we are seven!” William Wordsworth, "We Are Seven"
×