Creator Venus, genial power of love,
The bliss of men below, and gods above!
Beneath the sliding sun thou runn'st thy race,
Dost fairest shine, and best become thy place;
For thee the winds their eastern blasts forbear,
Thy mouth reveals the spring, and opens all the year;
Thee, goddess, thee, the storms of winter fly,
Earth smiles with flowers renewing, laughs the sky.
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There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town,
read more
There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town,
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the yellow god forever gazes down.
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
The Ethiop gods have Ethiop lips,
Bronze cheeks, and woolly hair;
The Grecian gods are like the read more
The Ethiop gods have Ethiop lips,
Bronze cheeks, and woolly hair;
The Grecian gods are like the Greeks,
As keen-eyed, cold and fair.
Two goddesses now must Cyprus adore;
The Muses are ten, and the Graces are four;
Stella's wit read more
Two goddesses now must Cyprus adore;
The Muses are ten, and the Graces are four;
Stella's wit is so charming, so sweet her fair face,
She shines a new Venus, a Muse, and a Grace.
And when they heard these sayings, they were full of wrath, and
cried out, saying, Great is Diana of read more
And when they heard these sayings, they were full of wrath, and
cried out, saying, Great is Diana of the Ephesians.
Though men determine, the gods doo dispose: and oft times many
things fall out betweene the cup and the read more
Though men determine, the gods doo dispose: and oft times many
things fall out betweene the cup and the lip.
I, Phoebus, sang those songs that gained so much renown
I, Phoebus, sang them; Homer only wrote them down.
I, Phoebus, sang those songs that gained so much renown
I, Phoebus, sang them; Homer only wrote them down.
War is the father of us all, King of all. Some it makes gods, some it makes men, some it read more
War is the father of us all, King of all. Some it makes gods, some it makes men, some it makes slaves, some free.
Say, Bacchus, why so placid? What can there be
In commune held by Pallas and by thee?
read more
Say, Bacchus, why so placid? What can there be
In commune held by Pallas and by thee?
Her pleasure is in darts and battles; thine
In joyous feasts and draughts of rosy wine.
