OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Non Est Mortale Quod Opto

NON EST MORTALE QUOD OPTO
Upon Mrs. A. L.
Thou think'st I flatter, when thy praise I tell,
But thou dost all hyperboles excel;
For I am sure thou art no mortal creature,
But a divine one, thron'd in human feature.
Thy piety is such, that heaven by merit,5 If ever any did, thou shouldst inherit:
Thy modesty is such, that, hadst thou been
Tempted as Eve, thou wouldst have shunn'd her sin:
So lovely fair thou art, that sure Dame Nature
Meant thee the pattern of the female creature:10 Besides all this, thy flowing wit is such,
That were it not in thee, 't had been too much
For woman-kind: should envy look thee o'er,
It would confess thus much, if not much more.
I love thee well, yet wish some bad in thee;15 For sure I am thou art too good for me.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Sir, whether these lines do find you out

Sir, Whether these lines do find you out,
Putting or clearing of a doubt;
Whether predestination,
Or reconciling three in one,
Or the unriddling how men die,5 And live at once eternally,
Now take you up, know 'tis decreed
You straight bestride the college steed,
Leave Socinus and the schoolmen
(Which Jack Bond swears do but fool men),10 And come to town: 'tis fit you show
Yourself abroad, that men may know
(Whate'er some learned men have guess'd)
That oracles are not yet ceas'd.
There you shall find the wit and wine15 Flowing alike, and both divine;
Dishes, with names not known in books,
And less amongst the college-cooks,
With sauce so pregnant that you need
Not stay till hunger bids you feed.20 The sweat of learned Johnson's brain,
And gentle Shakespear's eas'er strain,
A hackney-coach conveys you to,
In spite of all that rain can do;
And for your eighteenpence you sit25 The lord and judge of all fresh wit.
News in one day as much w' have here,
As serves all Windsor for a year,
And which the carrier brings to you,
After 't has here been found not true.30 Then think what company 's design'd
To meet you here, men so refin'd,
Their very common talk at board
Makes wise or mad a young court-lord,
And makes him capable to be35 Umpire in 's father's company:
Where no disputes, nor forc'd defence
Of a man's person for his sense,
Take up the time: all strive to be
Masters of truth, as victory;40 And, where you come, I'd boldly swear
A synod might as eas'ly err.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Sir John Suckling's Answer

SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S ANSWER
I tell thee, fellow, whoe'er thou be,
That made this fine sing-song of me,
Thou art a rhyming sot:
These very lines do thee bewray;
This barren wit makes all men say,5 'Twas some rebellious Scot.
But it's no wonder that you sing
Such songs of me who am no king,
When every Blue Cap swears
He'll not obey King James his ba'rn,10 That hugs a bishop under his arm,
And hangs them in his ears.
Had I been of your covenant,
You would have call'd me John of Gaunt,
And given me great renown;15 But, now I am John for the King,
You say I am but a poor Suckling,
And thus you cry me down.
Well, it's no matter what you say
Of me or mine, that ran away:20 I hold it no good fashion
A loyal subject's blood to spill,
When we have knaves enough to kill
By force and proclamation.
Commend me unto Lashly stout,25 And all his pedlars him about:
Tell them without remorse
That I will plunder all their packs
Which they have gotten, with the stolen knick-knacks,
With these my hundred horse.30
This holy war, this zealous firk
Against the bishops and the kirk,
And its pretended bravery—
Religion, all the world can tell,
Amongst Highlanders ne'er did dwell—35 It's but to cloak your knavery.
Such desperate gamesters as you be,
I cannot blame for tutoring me,
Since all you have is down;
And every boor forgets the plough,40 And swears that he'll turn gamester now
And venture for a crown.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Song (2)

SONG
1
If in all thy love there ever
Was one wav'ring thought, if thy flame
Were not still even, still the same:
Know this,5 Thou lov'st amiss;
And, to love true,
Thou must begin again, and love anew.
2
Thou dost not quake, and are struck dumb,10 And, in striving this to cover,
Dost not speak thy words twice over:
Know this,
Thou lov'st amiss;
And, to love true,15 Thou must begin again, and love anew.
3
And all defects for graces take,
Persuad'st thyself that jests are broken,
When she hath little or nothing spoken,20 Know this,
Thou lov'st amiss;
And, to love true,
Thou must begin again, and love anew.
4
Thou lett'st not men ask and ask again;
And, when thou answer'st, if it be,
To what was ask'd thee, properly:
Know this,
Thou lov'st amiss;30 And, to love true,
Thou must begin again, and love anew.
5
Thou cutt'st not fingers 'stead of meat,
And, with much gazing on her face35 Dost not rise hungry from the place:
Know this,
Thou lov'st amiss;
And, to love true,
Thou must begin again, and love anew.40
6
That thou art no perfect lover,
And, desiring to love true,
Thou dost begin to love anew,
Know this,45 Thou lov'st amiss;
And, to love true,
Thou must begin again, and love anew.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/My dearest rival, lest our love

My dearest rival, lest our love
Should with excentric motion move,
Before it learn to go astray,
We'll teach and set it in a way,
And such directions give unto 't,5 That it shall never wander foot.
Know first then, we will serve as true
For one poor smile, as we would do,
If we had what our higher flame
Or our vainer wish could frame.10
Impossible shall be our hope;
And love shall only have his scope
To join with fancy now and then,
And think what reason would condemn:
And on these grounds we'll love as true,15 As if they were most sure t' ensue:
And chastly for these things we'll stay,
As if to-morrow were the day.
Meantime we two will teach our hearts
In love's burdens bear their parts:20 Thou first shall sigh, and say she's fair;
And I'll still answer, past compare.
Thou shalt set out each part o' th' face,
While I extol each little grace:
Thou shalt be ravisht at her wit;25 And I, that she so governs it:
Thou shalt like well that hand, that eye,
That lip, that look, that majesty,
And in good language them adore;
While I want words and do it more.30 Yea we will sit and sigh a while,
And with soft thoughts some time beguile;
But straight again break out, and praise
All we had done before, new-ways.
Thus will we do, till paler death35 Come with a warrant for our breath;
And then, whose fate shall be to die
First of us two, by legacy
Shall all his store bequeath, and give
His love to him that shall survive;40 For no one stock can ever serve
To love so much as she'll deserve.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/On New-Year’s Day, 1640. To the King

POEMS
ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY, 1640. TO THE KING
1
Gives all your subjects a New-Year;
Only we stay till you appear,
For thus by us your power is understood,
He may make fair days, you must make them good.5 Awake, awake,
And take
Such presents as poor men can make;
They can add little unto bliss
Who cannot wish.10
2
Bold storms invade the sovereignty,
But gales of joy, so fresh, so high,
That you may think Heav'n sent to try this year
What sail, or burthen, a king's mind could bear.15 Awake, awake, etc.
3
(Like those in music we create)
Be govern'd at so wise a rate,
That what would of itself sound harsh, or fright,20 May be so temper'd that it may delight.
Awake, awake, etc.
4
Or lovers when their doves are kind,
Take up henceforth our master's mind,25 Make such strange rapes upon the place, 't may be
No longer joy there, but an ecstasy.
Awake, awake, etc.
5
That has or does your sense invite,30
Double this year, save those o' th' night:
For such a marriage-bed must know no more
Than repetition of what was before.
Awake, awake,
And take35 Such presents as poor men can make;
They can add little unto bliss
Who cannot wish.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Perjury Excused

PERJURY EXCUSED
Alas, it is too late! I can no more
Love now than I have loved before:
My Flora, 'tis my fate, not I;
And what you call contempt is destiny.
I am no monster, sure: I cannot show5 Two hearts; one I already owe;
And I have bound myself with oaths, and vowed
Oft'ner, I fear, than Heaven hath e'er allowed,
That faces now should work no more on me,
Than if they could not charm, or I not see.10 And shall I break them? shall I think you can
Love, if I could, so foul a perjur'd man?
O no, 'tis equally impossible that I
Should love again, or you love perjury.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Proffered Love Rejected

PROFFERED LOVE REJECTED
It is not four years ago,
I offered forty crowns
To lie with her a night or so:
She answer'd me in frowns.
Not two years since, she meeting me5 Did whisper in my ear,
That she would at my service be,
If I contented were.
I told her I was cold as snow,
And had no great desire;10 But should be well content to go
To twenty, but no higher.
Some three months since or thereabout,
She, that so coy had been,
Bethought herself and found me out,15 And was content to sin.
I smil'd at that, and told her I
Did think it something late,
And that I'd not repentance buy
At above half the rate.20
This present morning early she
Forsooth came to my bed,
And gratis there she offered me
Her high-priz'd maidenhead.
I told her that I thought it then25 Far dearer than I did,
When I at first the forty crowns
For one night's lodging bid.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Song (1)

SONG
1
Press me no more for that slight toy,
That foolish trifle of an heart:
I swear it will not do its part,
Though thou dost thine, employ'st thy power and art.5
2
The little secrets, and is grown
Sullen and wise, will have its will,
And, like old hawks, pursues that still
That makes least sport, flies only where 't can kill.10
3
Will think perchance the pain's the glory,
And mannerly sit out love's feast:
I shall be carving of the best,
Rudely call for the last course 'fore the rest.15
4
How short a time the feast doth last!
Men rise away, and scarce say grace,
Or civilly once thank the face
That did invite, but seek another place.20
# Things Mother Used to Make/Some Old-Fashioned Candies

SOME OLD-FASHIONED CANDIES
* 1½ Cupfuls of Molasses
* 1½ Cupfuls of Sugar
* ½ Cupful of Milk
* 2 Squares of Chocolate
* 1 Small Teaspoonful of Flour
* Butter the size of a Walnut
Stir the sugar, flour and grated chocolate into the molasses and milk. When hot add the butter. Boil until it strings. Pour into buttered tin. When nearly cold mark into squares.
* 2 Cupfuls of Molasses
* 2 Teaspoonfuls of Vinegar
* Butter the size of a Walnut
* ¼ Teaspoonful of Soda
Put the molasses, vinegar and butter into a saucepan. Boil until it strings when dropped from a spoon, or until it is brittle when dropped into cold water. Stir the soda in briskly and pour into a buttered tin. When nearly cold, pull until nearly white. Cut into small pieces or sticks and lay on buttered platter.
* ½ Cupful of Molasses
* ½ Cupful of Sugar
* ½ Cupful of Butter
Boil until it strings. Pour into buttered tin and when cold break into pieces. This is very nice when cooled on snow.
* 1 Cupful of Molasses
* Piece of Butter, half the size of an Egg
Boil together until it strings and then stir in a pinch of soda. Put this over a quart dish full of popped corn. When cool enough to handle squeeze into balls the size of an orange.
# Things Mother Used to Make/Vegetables

VEGETABLES
* 2 Cupfuls of Corn, grated from the cob
* 2 Eggs
* A Little Salt
* ½ Cupful of Milk
* ½ Cupful of Flour
* 1 Level Teaspoonful of Cream of Tartar
* ½ Level Teaspoonful of Soda
Beat the eggs, then add the milk and salt. Stir the corn into the dry flour, wetting with the milk and eggs, then fry in hot lard.
Bake six potatoes, or enough for family. When done, set away to cool slightly. Cut off a small piece, scoop out the inside, mash, add butter, salt, and milk, also tiny bits of parsley, if liked. Fill the shells with this mixture, put back in the oven and bake until brown.
* 4 or 5 Baked Potatoes
* 1 Pint of Milk
* ½ Teaspoonful of Salt
* Butter, the size of a Walnut
Pare the potatoes and cut into small pieces. Put them on the stove, in an agate dish, salt and cover ​with milk. Let them cook fifteen or twenty minutes, then thicken with one tablespoonful of flour, stirred with half a cupful of water; put in the butter and serve hot.
Butter a baking-dish, pare and slice potatoes in small pieces. Put into the dish with salt, pepper and a little butter. Fill the dish with milk, sprinkle over the top cracker or bread crumbs, and cheese, if you like it. Bake in the oven for an hour and a half or two hours.
* 6 Tomatoes
* 2 Cupfuls of Bread Crumbs
* Small piece of Onion
* A few Stalks of Celery Hearts
* Salt and Pepper to taste
Cut off a small piece of each tomato and scoop out the inside. Mix this with two cupfuls, or the same amount of bread crumbs, the chopped onion, salt and pepper. Then fill the tomatoes with this mixture, putting small pieces of butter over the top. Place these in a pan in which is a very little water, to prevent sticking, and bake in a hot oven from twenty minutes to half an hour.
Pare and slice (not very thin), dip into flour and fry on a griddle in hot fat.
# Things Seen in Holland

THINGS SEEN IN HOLLAND
WEST OF DORDRECHT.
South Hollanders delivering milk, and knitting. In Holland the dog is employed as a draught animal, and not merely as a domestic pet.
THINGS SEEN IN HOLLAND
BY
CHARLES E. ROCHE
WITH FIFTY ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON
SEELEY, SERVICE & CO. LIMITED
38 Great Russell Street
1912
PREFACE
MY aim in the following pages has been to convey to my readers some of the enjoyment and interest which I have experienced while rambling through the picturesque cities of Holland, its pleasant villages, and its quaint waterways; and also some of my own admiration for a people so famous in history, in enterprise, and in Art.
Thanks are due from me to my friends Mr. Henry Perrin, for many photographs; Heer Adolf Le Comte, Heer W. L. Bruckman, and Mr. Norman H. Hardy, for ​sketches; and, lastly, to Mr. David S. Meldrum, the author of “Holland and the Hollanders.”
CHARLES E. ROCHE.
Chelsea, July, 1909.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
THE CHARM OF THE NETHERLANDS
PAGES
CHAPTER II
LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY
CHAPTER III
THE QUEEN AND HER PEOPLE
CHAPTER IV
HOLLAND'S ARTISTIC SIDE
CHAPTER V
HISTORY AND LANGUAGE
CHAPTER VI
ON MANY SUBJECTS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
# The man against the sky; a book of poems/Hillcrest

HILLCREST
(To Mrs. Edward MacDowell)
No sound of any storm that shakes Old island walls with older seas Comes here where now September makes An island in a sea of trees.
Between the sunlight and the shade A man may learn till he forgets The roaring of a world remade, And all his ruins and regrets;
And if he still remembers here Poor fights he may have won or lost,— If he be ridden with the fear Of what some other fight may cost,—
If, eager to confuse too soon, What he has known with what may be, He reads a planet out of tune For cause of his jarred harmony,—
If here he venture to unroll His index of adagios, And he be given to console Humanity with what he knows,—
He may by contemplation learn A little more than what he knew, And even see great oaks return To acorns out of which they grew.
He may, if he but listen well, Through twilight and the silence here, Be told what there are none may tell To vanity's impatient ear;
And he may never dare again Say what awaits him, or be sure What sunlit labyrinth of pain He may not enter and endure.
Who knows to-day from yesterday May learn to count no thing too strange: Love builds of what Time takes away, Till Death itself is less than Change.
Who sees enough in his duress May go as far as dreams have gone; Who sees a little may do less Than many who are blind have done;
Who sees unchastened here the soul Triumphant has no other sight Than has a child who sees the whole World radiant with his own delight.
Far journeys and hard wandering Await him in whose crude surmise Peace, like a mask, hides everything That is and has been from his eyes;
And all his wisdom is unfound, Or like a web that error weaves On airy looms that have a sound No louder now than falling leaves.
# The man against the sky; a book of poems/Cassandra

CASSANDRA
I heard one who said: "Verily, What word have I for children here? Your Dollar is your only Word, The wrath of it your only fear.
"You build it altars tall enough To make you see, but you are blind; You cannot leave it long enough To look before you or behind.
"When Reason beckons you to pause, You laugh and say that you know best; But what it is you know, you keep As dark as ingots in a chest.
"You laugh and answer, 'We are young; O leave us now, and let us grow.'— Not asking how much more of this Will Time endure or Fate bestow.
"Because a few complacent years Have made your peril of your pride, Think you that you are to go on Forever pampered and untried?
"What lost eclipse of history, What bivouac of the marching stars, Has given the sign for you to see Millenniums and last great wars?
"What unrecorded overthrow Of all the world has ever known, Or ever been, has made itself So plain to you, and you alone?
"Your Dollar, Dove and Eagle make A Trinity that even you Rate higher than you rate yourselves; It pays, it flatters, and it's new.
"And though your very flesh and blood Be what your Eagle eats and drinks, You'll praise him for the best of birds, Not knowing what the Eagle thinks.
"The power is yours, but not the sight; You see not upon what you tread; You have the ages for your guide, But not the wisdom to be led.
"Think you to tread forever down The merciless old verities? And are you never to have eyes To see the world for what it is?
"Are you to pay for what you have With all you are?"—No other word We caught, but with a laughing crowd Moved on. None heeded, and few heard.
# The man against the sky; a book of poems/John Gorham

JOHN GORHAM
"Tell me what you're doing over here, John Gorham, Sighing hard and seeming to be sorry when you're not; Make me laugh or let me go now, for long faces in the moonlight Are a sign for me to say again a word that you forgot."—
"I'm over here to tell you what the moon already May have said or maybe shouted ever since a year ago;
I'm over here to tell you what you are, Jane Wayland, And to make you rather sorry, I should say, for being so."—
"Tell me what you're saying to me now, John Gorham, Or you'll never see as much of me as ribbons any more; I'll vanish in as many ways as I have toes and fingers, And you'll not follow far for one where flocks have been before."—
"I'm sorry now you never saw the flocks, Jane Wayland, But you're the one to make of them as many as you need.
And then about the vanishing. It's I who mean to vanish; And when I'm here no longer you'll be done with me indeed."—
"That's a way to tell me what I am, John Gorham! How am I to know myself until I make you smile? Try to look as if the moon were making faces at you, And a little more as if you meant to stay a little while."—
"You are what it is that over rose-blown gardens Makes a pretty flutter for a season in the sun; You are what it is that with a mouse, Jane Wayland, Catches him and let's him go and eats him up for fun."—
"Sure I never took you for a mouse, John Gorham; All you say is easy, but so far from being true That I wish you wouldn't ever be again the one to think so; For it isn't cats and butterflies that I would be to you."—
"All your little animals are in one picture— One I've had before me since a year ago to-night; And the picture where they live will be of you, Jane Wayland, Till you find a way to kill them or to keep them out of sight."—
"Won't you ever see me as I am, John Gorham, Leaving out the foolishness and all I never meant?
Somewhere in me there's a woman, if you know the way to find her. Will you like me any better if I prove it and repent?"
"I doubt if I shall ever have the time, Jane Wayland; And I dare say all this moonlight lying round us might as well Fall for nothing on the shards of broken urns that are forgotten, As on two that have no longer much of anything to tell."
# The man against the sky; a book of poems/Eros Turannos

EROS TURANNOS
She fears him, and will always ask What fated her to choose him; She meets in his engaging mask All reasons to refuse him; But what she meets and what she fears Are less than are the downward years, Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs Of age, were she to lose him.
Between a blurred sagacity That once had power to sound him, And Love, that will not let him be The Judas that she found him, Her pride assuages her almost, As if it were alone the cost.— He sees that he will not be lost, And waits and looks around him.
A sense of ocean and old trees Envelops and allures him; Tradition, touching all he sees, Beguiles and reassures him; And all her doubts of what he says Are dimmed with what she knows of days— Till even prejudice delays And fades, and she secures him.
The falling leaf inaugurates The reign of her confusion; The pounding wave reverberates The dirge of her illusion; And home, where passion lived and died, Becomes a place where she can hide, While all the town and harbor side Vibrate with her seclusion.
We tell you, tapping on our brows, The story as it should be,— As if the story of a house Were told, or ever could be; We'll have no kindly veil between Her visions and those we have seen,— As if we guessed what hers have been, Or what they are or would be.
Meanwhile we do no harm; for they That with a god have striven, Not hearing much of what we say, Take what the god has given; Though like waves breaking it may be, Or like a changed familiar tree, Or like a stairway to the sea Where down the blind are driven.
# The man against the sky; a book of poems/Bewick Finzer

BEWICK FINZER
Time was when his half million drew The breath of six per cent; But soon the worm of what-was-not Fed hard on his content; And something crumbled in his brain When his half million went.
Time passed, and filled along with his The place of many more;
Time came, and hardly one of us Had credence to restore, From what appeared one day, the man Whom we had known before.
The broken voice, the withered neck, The coat worn out with care, The cleanliness of indigence, The brilliance of despair, The fond imponderable dreams Of affluence,—all were there.
Poor Finzer, with his dreams and schemes, Fares hard now in the race, With heart and eye that have a task When he looks in the face Of one who might so easily Have been in Finzer's place.
He comes unfailing for the loan We give and then forget; He comes, and probably for years Will he be coming yet,— Familiar as an old mistake, And futile as regret.
# The man against the sky; a book of poems/Fragment

FRAGMENT
Faint white pillars that seem to fade As you look from here are the first one sees Of his house where it hides and dies in a shade Of beeches and oaks and hickory trees. Now many a man, given woods like these, And a house like that, and the Briony gold, Would have said, "There are still some gods to please, And houses are built without hands, we're told."
There are the pillars, and all gone gray. Briony's hair went white. You may see Where the garden was if you come this way. That sun-dial scared him, he said to me; "Sooner or later they strike," said he, And he never got that from the books he read. Others are flourishing, worse than he, But he knew too much for the life he led.
And who knows all knows everything That a patient ghost at last retrieves; There's more to be known of his harvesting When Time the thresher unbinds the sheaves; And there's more to be heard than a wind that grieves For Briony now in this ageless oak, Driving the first of its withered leaves Over the stones where the fountain broke.