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A Satire Anthology
Автор
Год написания книги
2017
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If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying’s bright illusion,
The world would be in strange confusion!
If ladies’ eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy should leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies’ eyes!
Oh no! – believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your yellow locks to golden wire,
Then, only then, can heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We’ve swearing kiss’d, and kissing sworn.
And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once, I’ll tell you truth, my dear!
Whenever you may chance to meet
A loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you’re false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures;
And while he lies, his heart is yours.
But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth!
Thomas Moore.
THE KING OF YVETOT[1 - Version of W. M. Thackeray.]
THERE was a king of Yvetot,
Of whom renown hath little said,
Who let all thoughts of glory go,
And dawdled half his days abed;
And every night, as night came round,
By Jenny with a nightcap crowned,
Slept very sound:
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.
And every day it came to pass
That four lusty meals made he;
And step by step, upon an ass,
Rode abroad, his realms to see;
And wherever he did stir,
What think you was his escort, sir?
Why, an old cur.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.
If e’er he went into excess,
’Twas from a somewhat lively thirst;
But he who would his subjects bless,
Odd’s fish! must wet his whistle first;
And so, from every cask they got,
Our king did to himself allot
At least a pot.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.
To all the ladies of the land
A courteous king, and kind, was he;
The reason why, you’ll understand —
They named him Pater Patriæ.
Each year he called his fighting men,
And marched a league from home, and then.
Marched back again.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.
Neither by force nor false pretence,
He sought to make his kingdom great,
And made (O princes, learn from hence)
“Live and let live” his rule of state.
’Twas only when he came to die,
That his people who stood by
Were known to cry.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.
The portrait of this best of kings
Is extant still, upon a sign
That on a village tavern swings,
Famed in the country for good wine.
The people in their Sunday trim,
Filling their glasses to the brim,
Look up to him,
Singing, “Ha, ha, ha!” and “He, he, he!
That’s the sort of king for me.”
Pierre Jean De Béranger.
SYMPATHY
A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove,
While each was in quest of a fugitive love.
A river ran mournfully murmuring by,
And they wept in its waters for sympathy.
Were aught but lying’s bright illusion,
The world would be in strange confusion!
If ladies’ eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy should leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies’ eyes!
Oh no! – believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your yellow locks to golden wire,
Then, only then, can heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We’ve swearing kiss’d, and kissing sworn.
And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once, I’ll tell you truth, my dear!
Whenever you may chance to meet
A loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you’re false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures;
And while he lies, his heart is yours.
But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth!
Thomas Moore.
THE KING OF YVETOT[1 - Version of W. M. Thackeray.]
THERE was a king of Yvetot,
Of whom renown hath little said,
Who let all thoughts of glory go,
And dawdled half his days abed;
And every night, as night came round,
By Jenny with a nightcap crowned,
Slept very sound:
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.
And every day it came to pass
That four lusty meals made he;
And step by step, upon an ass,
Rode abroad, his realms to see;
And wherever he did stir,
What think you was his escort, sir?
Why, an old cur.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.
If e’er he went into excess,
’Twas from a somewhat lively thirst;
But he who would his subjects bless,
Odd’s fish! must wet his whistle first;
And so, from every cask they got,
Our king did to himself allot
At least a pot.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.
To all the ladies of the land
A courteous king, and kind, was he;
The reason why, you’ll understand —
They named him Pater Patriæ.
Each year he called his fighting men,
And marched a league from home, and then.
Marched back again.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.
Neither by force nor false pretence,
He sought to make his kingdom great,
And made (O princes, learn from hence)
“Live and let live” his rule of state.
’Twas only when he came to die,
That his people who stood by
Were known to cry.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.
The portrait of this best of kings
Is extant still, upon a sign
That on a village tavern swings,
Famed in the country for good wine.
The people in their Sunday trim,
Filling their glasses to the brim,
Look up to him,
Singing, “Ha, ha, ha!” and “He, he, he!
That’s the sort of king for me.”
Pierre Jean De Béranger.
SYMPATHY
A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove,
While each was in quest of a fugitive love.
A river ran mournfully murmuring by,
And they wept in its waters for sympathy.
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