#Americans #Jews #XXCentury #1920 #SomethingElseAgain
Whenever the penner of this pome Regards a lovely country home, He sighs, in words not insincere, “I think I’d like to live out her… And when the builder of this ditty
Twelve fleeting years ago my Myrt… (Ehu fugaces! maybe more) I wrote of the directoire skirt You wore. Ten years ago, Myrtilla mine,
They brought to me his mangled cor… And I feared lest I should swing. “O tell me, tell me,—and make it b… Why hast thou done this thing? ”Had this man robbed the starving…
(Parody is a genre frowned upon by… of literature... And yet it is a g… ‘The Point of View’ in May _Scri… A sweet disorder in the verse That never looks behind
Horace: Epode 14 "Mollis inertia cur tantam diffude… Mæcenas, you fret me, you worry me Demanding I turn out a rhyme; Insisting on reasons, you hurry me…
Sporting with Amaryllis in the sh… (I credit Milton in parenthesis), Among the speculations that she ma… Was this: “When”—these her very words—"when…
Shall I, lying in a grot, Die because the day is hot? Or declare I can’t endure Such a torrid temperature? Be it hotter than the flames
Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said– And your tone was earnest, very– You would never deck your head With this vernal millinery. Myrt, to mince no words, you lied;
I saw him lying cold and dead Who yesterday was whole. “Why,” I inquired, “hath he expir… And why hath fled his soul? ”but yesterday," his comrade said,
“Oh bard,” I said, “your verse is… The shackles that encumber me, The fetters that are my obsession, Are never gyves to your expression… ”The fear of falsities in rhyme,
There was a man in our town, and h… was wondrous rich; He gave away his millions to the c… and sich; And people cried: “The hypocrite!…
Horace: Book III, Ode 9 “Donec eram gratus tibi—” HORACE, PVT.—TH INFANTR… While I was fussing you at home You put the notion in my dome
(The man who wants the perfect wif… ‘stock-size.’ She comes cheaper.-_… Ah, Myrtilla, woe and dear me! Lackadaydee and alas! What is this, I greatly fear me,
AD LEUCONOEN Horace: Book I, Ode 13. _'Tu ne quoesieris, scire nefas-'_ It is not right for you to know, s… Leuconoe,
Horace: Book I, Ode 23 “Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloë… Why shun me, my Chloë«? Nor pisto… Is mine with intention to kill. And yet like a llama you run to yo…