Versuri romana si engleza

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Număr de rezultate: 83



Beneath Blessington’s eyes
The reclaimed Paradise
Should be free as the former from evil

From The French / Aegle

Aegle, beauty and poet, has two little crimes

To Mr. Murray / For Orford

For Orford and for Waldegrave
You give much more than me you gave

Napoleon's Snuff-box

Lady, accept the box a hero wore,
⁠In spite of all this elegiac stuff:
Let not seven stanzas written by a bore,
⁠Prevent your Ladyship from taking snuff!


The new Vicar of Bray

⁠⁠Do you know Doctor Nott?
⁠⁠With 'a crook in his lot,'
Who seven years since tried to dish up
⁠⁠A neat Codicil
⁠⁠To the Princess's Will,
Which made Dr. Nott not a bishop.
⁠⁠So the Doctor being found
⁠⁠A little unsound
In his doctrine, at least as a teacher,
⁠⁠And kicked from one stool
⁠⁠As a knave or a fool,
He mounted another as preacher.
⁠⁠In that Gown (like the Skin
⁠⁠With no Lion within)
He still for the Bench would be driving

Lucietta / А fragment

Lucietta, my deary,
That fairest of faces!
Is made up of kisses

Bowles and Campbell

- To the air of 'How now, Madam Flirt,' in the Beggar's Opera.-
'Why, how now, saucy Tom?
⁠If you thus must ramble,
I will publish some
⁠Remarks on Mister Campbell.
⁠Saucy Tom!'
'Why, how now, Billy Bowles?
⁠Sure the priest is maudlin!
(To the public) How can you, d—n your souls!
⁠Listen to his twaddling?
⁠Billy Bowles!'
(February 22, 1821)


Elegy / Lady Noel

Behold the blessings of a lucky lot!
My play is damned, and Lady Noel not.
(May 25, 1821)


John Keats

Who killed John Keats?
‘I,’ says the Quarterly,
So savage and Tartarly

My Boy Hobbie O.

/ New Song to the tune of:
'Whare hae ye been a' day,
⁠My boy Tammy O?
Courting o' a young thing
⁠Just come frae her Mammie O.' /
How came you in Hob's pound to cool,
⁠My boy Hobbie O?
Because I bade the people pull
⁠The House into the Lobby O.
What did the House upon this call,
⁠My boy Hobbie O?
They voted me to Newgate all,
⁠Which is an awkward Jobby O.
Who are now the people's men,
⁠My boy Hobbie O?
There's I and Burdett—Gentlemen
⁠And blackguard Hunt and Cobby O.
You hate the house—why canvass, then?
⁠My boy Hobbie O?
Because I would reform the den
⁠As member for the Mobby O.
Wherefore do you hate the Whigs,
⁠My boy Hobbie O?
Because they want to run their rigs,
⁠As under Walpole Bobby O.
But when we at Cambridge were
⁠My boy Hobbie O,
If my memory dont err
⁠You founded a Whig Clubbie O.
When to the mob you make a speech,
⁠My boy Hobbie O,
How do you keep without their reach
⁠The watch within your fobby O?
But never mind such petty things,
⁠My boy Hobbie O

Lines / Addressed To Hobhouse

Would you go to the house by the true gate,
⁠Much faster than ever Whig Charley went

A Volume of Nonsense

Dear Murray,—
⁠You ask for a 'Volume of Nonsense,'
⁠Have all of your authors exhausted their store?
I thought you had published a good deal not long since.
⁠And doubtless the Squadron are ready with more.
But on looking again, I perceive that the Species
Of 'Nonsense' you want must be purely 'facetious

Epigram On My Wedding-Day /To Penelope

This day, of all our days, has done
The worst for me and you :-
‘Tis just six years since we were one,
And five since we were two.
(January 2, 1821)


The Charlty Ball

What matter the pangs of a husband and father,
⁠If his sorrows in exile be great or be small,
So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather,
⁠And the saint patronises her 'Charity Ball!'
​What matters—a heart which, though faulty, was feeling,
⁠Be driven to excesses which once could appal—
That the Sinner should suffer is only fair dealing,
⁠As the Saint keeps her charity back for 'the Ball!'
(December 10, 1820)


On my Thirty-third Birthday

January 22, 1821.
Through Life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragged to three-and-thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing—except thirty-three.


Epigram: From The French Of Rulhières

If, for silver or for gold,
You could melt ten thousand pimples
Into half a dozen dimples,
Then your face we might behold,
Looking, doubtless, much more snugly


There's something in a stupid ass,
⁠And something in a heavy dunce

On my Wedding-Day

Here's a happy New Year! but with reason
⁠I beg you'll permit me to say —
Wish me many returns of the Season,
⁠But as few as you please of the Day.
(January 2, 1820)


On The Birth Of John William Rizzo Hoppner

His father’s sense, his mother’s grace,
In him I hope, will always fit so

E Nihilo Nihil, or An Epigram Bewitched

Of rhymes I printed seven volumes—
The list concludes John Murray's columns:
Of these there have been few translations
For Gallic or Italian nations

To Mr. Murray (Strahan, Tonson Lintot Of The Times)

Strahan, Tonson Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
My Murray.
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unedged MS. authors come

Ballad / to the tune of Salley in our alley

Of all the twice ten thousand bards
⁠That ever penned a canto,
Whom Pudding or whom Praise rewards
⁠For lining a portmanteau

Another Simple Ballat (sic!)

Mrs. Wilmot sate scribbling a play,
⁠Mr. Sotheby sate sweating behind her

Endorsement to the Deed of Separation, in the April of 1816

A year ago you swore, fond she!
⁠'To love, to honour,' and so forth:
Such was the vow you pledged to me,
⁠And here's exactly what 't is worth.


To George Anson Byron (?)

And, dost thou ask the reason of my sadness?
⁠Well, I will tell it thee, unfeeling boy!
'T was ill report that urged my brain to madness,
⁠'T was thy tongue's venom poisoned all my joy.
The sadness which thou seest is not sorrow

To Thomas Moore / What are you doing

What are you doing now,
⁠Oh Thomas Moore?
What are you doing now,
⁠Oh Thomas Moore?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,
⁠Which, Thomas Moore?
But the Carnival 's coming,
⁠Oh Thomas Moore!
The Carnival 's coming,
⁠Oh Thomas Moore!
Masking and humming,
Fifing and drumming,
Guitarring and strumming,
⁠Oh Thomas Moore!
(December 24, 1816)


To Mr. Murray

To hook the reader, you, John Murray,
Have publish’d ‘Anjou’s Margaret,
Which won’t be sold off in a hurry
(At least, it has not been as yet)


I read the 'Christabel

To Thomas Moore / My boat is on the shore

My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea

Epistle From Mr. Murray To Dr. Polidori

Dear Doctor, I have read your play,
Which is a good one in its way,­
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
With tears, that, in a flux of grief,
Afford hysterical relief
To shatter’d nerves and quicken’d pulses,
Which your catastrophe convulses.
I like your moral and machinery

Epistle to Murray

My dear Mr. Murray,
You’re in a damn ‘d hurry,
To set up this ultimate Canto