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A Satire Anthology
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Год написания книги
2017
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That show’d the rogues they lied:
The man recover’d of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
Oliver Goldsmith.
ON SMOLLETT
WHENCE could arise this mighty critic spleen,
The muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?
What had I done that angry Heaven should send
The bitterest foe where most I wished a friend?
Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,
And hailed the honours of thy matchless fame.
For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,
So nobler Pickle stand superbly bound;
From Livy’s temples tear the historic crown,
Which with more justice blooms upon thine own.
Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,
But he who wrote the life of Tommy Thumb.
Who ever read “The Regicide” but swore
The author wrote as man ne’er wrote before?
Others for plots and under-plots may call;
Here’s the right method – have no plot at all!
Charles Churchill.
THE UNCERTAIN MAN
DUBIUS is such a scrupulous good man —
Yes, you may catch him tripping, if you can.
He would not with a peremptory tone
Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow,
He humbly hopes – presumes – it may be so.
His evidence, if he were called by law
To swear to some enormity he saw,
For want of prominence and just belief,
Would hang an honest man and save a thief.
Through constant dread of giving truth offence,
He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;
What he remembers, seems to have forgot;
His sole opinion, whatsoe’er befall,
Centring at last in having none at all.
William Cowper.
A FAITHFUL PICTURE OF ORDINARY SOCIETY
THE circle formed, we sit in silent state,
Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate.
“Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” uttered softly, show
Every five minutes how the minutes go.
Each individual, suffering a constraint —
Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint —
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry,
And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse.
We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,
Like conservators of the public health,
Of epidemic throats, if such there are
Of coughs and rheums, and phthisic and catarrh.
That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,
Filled up at last with interesting news:
Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed;
And who is hanged, and who is brought to bed,
But fear to call a more important cause,
As if ’twere treason against English laws.
The visit paid, with ecstasy we come,
As from a seven years’ transportation, home
And there resume an unembarrassed brow,
Recovering what we lost we know not how,
The faculties that seemed reduced to naught,
Expression, and the privilege of thought.
William Cowper.
ON JOHNSON
I OWN I like not Johnson’s turgid style,
That gives an inch th’ importance of a mile;
Casts of manure a wagon-load around,
To raise a simple daisy from the ground;
Uplifts the club of Hercules – for what?
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;
Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw
A goose’s feather or exalt a straw;
Sets wheels on wheels in motion – such a clatter —
To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heaven’s awful thunder or a rumbling cart!
John Wolcott (Peter Pindar).
TO BOSWELL
The man recover’d of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
Oliver Goldsmith.
ON SMOLLETT
WHENCE could arise this mighty critic spleen,
The muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?
What had I done that angry Heaven should send
The bitterest foe where most I wished a friend?
Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,
And hailed the honours of thy matchless fame.
For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,
So nobler Pickle stand superbly bound;
From Livy’s temples tear the historic crown,
Which with more justice blooms upon thine own.
Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,
But he who wrote the life of Tommy Thumb.
Who ever read “The Regicide” but swore
The author wrote as man ne’er wrote before?
Others for plots and under-plots may call;
Here’s the right method – have no plot at all!
Charles Churchill.
THE UNCERTAIN MAN
DUBIUS is such a scrupulous good man —
Yes, you may catch him tripping, if you can.
He would not with a peremptory tone
Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow,
He humbly hopes – presumes – it may be so.
His evidence, if he were called by law
To swear to some enormity he saw,
For want of prominence and just belief,
Would hang an honest man and save a thief.
Through constant dread of giving truth offence,
He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;
What he remembers, seems to have forgot;
His sole opinion, whatsoe’er befall,
Centring at last in having none at all.
William Cowper.
A FAITHFUL PICTURE OF ORDINARY SOCIETY
THE circle formed, we sit in silent state,
Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate.
“Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” uttered softly, show
Every five minutes how the minutes go.
Each individual, suffering a constraint —
Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint —
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry,
And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse.
We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,
Like conservators of the public health,
Of epidemic throats, if such there are
Of coughs and rheums, and phthisic and catarrh.
That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,
Filled up at last with interesting news:
Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed;
And who is hanged, and who is brought to bed,
But fear to call a more important cause,
As if ’twere treason against English laws.
The visit paid, with ecstasy we come,
As from a seven years’ transportation, home
And there resume an unembarrassed brow,
Recovering what we lost we know not how,
The faculties that seemed reduced to naught,
Expression, and the privilege of thought.
William Cowper.
ON JOHNSON
I OWN I like not Johnson’s turgid style,
That gives an inch th’ importance of a mile;
Casts of manure a wagon-load around,
To raise a simple daisy from the ground;
Uplifts the club of Hercules – for what?
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;
Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw
A goose’s feather or exalt a straw;
Sets wheels on wheels in motion – such a clatter —
To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heaven’s awful thunder or a rumbling cart!
John Wolcott (Peter Pindar).
TO BOSWELL
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
Последний отзыв
Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
Далее