Poem – To Lady Mary Wortley Montagu – Alexander Pope.


In beauty, or wit, 

No mortal as yet 

To question your empire has dared: 

But men of discerning 

Have thought that in learning 

To yield to a lady was hard. 

Impertinent schools, 

With musty dull rules, 

Have reading to females denied; 

So Papists refuse 

The Bible to use, 

Lest flocks should be wise as their guide. 

‘Twas a woman at first 

(Indeed she was curst) 

In knowledge that tasted delight, 

And sages agree 

The laws should decree 

To the first possessor the right. 

Then bravely, fair dame, 

Resume the old claim, 

Which to your whole sex does belong; 

And let men receive, 

From a second bright Eve, 

The knowledge of right and of wrong. 

But if the first Eve 

Hard doom did receive, 

When only one apple had she, 

What a punishment new 

Shall be found out for you, 

Who tasting, have robb’d the whole tree?

Poem – Juliet’s Soliloquy – William Shakespeare

Farewell!–God knows when we shall meet again. 

I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins 

That almost freezes up the heat of life: 

I’ll call them back again to comfort me;– 

Nurse!–What should she do here? 

My dismal scene I needs must act alone.– 

Come, vial.– 

What if this mixture do not work at all? 

Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning?– 

No, No!–this shall forbid it:–lie thou there.– 

What if it be a poison, which the friar 

Subtly hath minister’d to have me dead, 

Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d, 

Because he married me before to Romeo? 

I fear it is: and yet methinks it should not, 

For he hath still been tried a holy man:– 

I will not entertain so bad a thought.– 

How if, when I am laid into the tomb, 

I wake before the time that Romeo 

Come to redeem me? there’s a fearful point! 

Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, 

To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, 

And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? 

Or, if I live, is it not very like 

The horrible conceit of death and night, 

Together with the terror of the place,– 

As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, 

Where, for this many hundred years, the bones 

Of all my buried ancestors are pack’d; 

Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, 

Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say, 

At some hours in the night spirits resort;– 

Alack, alack, is it not like that I, 

So early waking,–what with loathsome smells, 

And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, 

That living mortals, hearing them, run mad;– 

O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, 

Environed with all these hideous fears? 

And madly play with my forefathers’ joints? 

And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? 

And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone, 

As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?– 

O, look! methinks I see my cousin’s ghost 

Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body 

Upon a rapier’s point:–stay, Tybalt, stay!– 

Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.

Poem – Now The Hungry Lion Roars – William Shakespeare

From “A Midsummer-Night’s Dream,” Act V. Scene 2 
PUCK sings: 

NOW the hungry lion roars, 

And the wolf behowls the moon; 

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, 

All with weary task fordone. 

Now the wasted brands do glow, 

Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, 

Puts the wretch that lies in woe 

In remembrance of a shroud. 

Now it is the time of night, 

That the graves, all gaping wide, 

Every one lets forth his sprite, 

In the churchway paths to glide: 

And we fairies, that do run 

By the triple Hecate’s team, 

From the presence of the sun, 

Following darkness like a dream, 

Now are frolic; not a mouse 

Shall disturb this hallowed house: 

I am sent with broom before 

To sweep the dust behind the door.