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A Satire Anthology
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Год написания книги
2017
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Save censure; critics all are ready-made.
Take hackney’d jokes from Miller, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skill’d to find or forge a fault,
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet;
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet.
Fear not to lie – ’twill seem a sharper hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy – ’twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling; pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic, hated yet caress’d.
And shall we own such judgment? No! as soon
Seek roses in December, ice in June,
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that’s false, before
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By Jeffrey’s heart or Lambe’s Bœotian head.
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste;
To these, when authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law —
While these are censors, ’twould be sin to spare;
While such are critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
’Tis doubtful whom to seek or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare or where to strike,
Our bards and censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me why I venture o’er
The path which Pope and Gifford trod before;
If not yet sicken’d, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
“But hold!” exclaims a friend – “here’s some neglect:
This, that, and t’other line seems incorrect.”
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
And careless Dryden – “Ay, but Pye has not.”
Indeed! ’tis granted, faith! but what care I?
Better to err with Pope than shine with Pye.
Lord Byron.
TO WOMAN
WOMAN, experience might have told me
That all must love thee who behold thee;
Surely experience might have taught,
Thy firmest promises are naught;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
O Memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join’d with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover,
When hope is fled, and passion’s over!
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope ’twill last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will forever stand,
“Woman, thy vows are trac’d in sand.”
Lord Byron.
A COUNTRY HOUSE PARTY
THE gentlemen got up betimes to shoot
Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport —
The first thing boys like after play and fruit;
The middle-aged to make the day more short;
For ennui is a growth of English root,
Though nameless in our language: we retort
The fact for words, and let the French translate
That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate.
The elderly walk’d through the library,
And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures,
Or saunter’d through the gardens piteously,
And made upon the hothouse several strictures;
Or rode a nag which trotted not too high,
Or on the morning papers read their lectures;
Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix,
Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six.
But none were gêné: the great hour of union
Was rung by dinner’s knell; till then all were
Masters of their own time – or in communion,
Or solitary, as they chose to bear
The hours, which how to pass is but to few known.
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare
What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast
When, where, and how he chose for that repast.
The ladies – some rouged, some a little pale —
Take hackney’d jokes from Miller, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skill’d to find or forge a fault,
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet;
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet.
Fear not to lie – ’twill seem a sharper hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy – ’twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling; pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic, hated yet caress’d.
And shall we own such judgment? No! as soon
Seek roses in December, ice in June,
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that’s false, before
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By Jeffrey’s heart or Lambe’s Bœotian head.
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste;
To these, when authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law —
While these are censors, ’twould be sin to spare;
While such are critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
’Tis doubtful whom to seek or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare or where to strike,
Our bards and censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me why I venture o’er
The path which Pope and Gifford trod before;
If not yet sicken’d, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
“But hold!” exclaims a friend – “here’s some neglect:
This, that, and t’other line seems incorrect.”
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
And careless Dryden – “Ay, but Pye has not.”
Indeed! ’tis granted, faith! but what care I?
Better to err with Pope than shine with Pye.
Lord Byron.
TO WOMAN
WOMAN, experience might have told me
That all must love thee who behold thee;
Surely experience might have taught,
Thy firmest promises are naught;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
O Memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join’d with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover,
When hope is fled, and passion’s over!
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope ’twill last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will forever stand,
“Woman, thy vows are trac’d in sand.”
Lord Byron.
A COUNTRY HOUSE PARTY
THE gentlemen got up betimes to shoot
Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport —
The first thing boys like after play and fruit;
The middle-aged to make the day more short;
For ennui is a growth of English root,
Though nameless in our language: we retort
The fact for words, and let the French translate
That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate.
The elderly walk’d through the library,
And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures,
Or saunter’d through the gardens piteously,
And made upon the hothouse several strictures;
Or rode a nag which trotted not too high,
Or on the morning papers read their lectures;
Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix,
Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six.
But none were gêné: the great hour of union
Was rung by dinner’s knell; till then all were
Masters of their own time – or in communion,
Or solitary, as they chose to bear
The hours, which how to pass is but to few known.
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare
What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast
When, where, and how he chose for that repast.
The ladies – some rouged, some a little pale —
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