OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Slantèn light o' Fall

THE SLANTÈN LIGHT O’ FALL.
Ah! Jeäne, my maïd, I stood to you,  When you wer christen’d, small an’ light, Wi’ tiny eärms o’ red an’ blue,  A-hangèn in your robe o’ white. We brought ye to the hallow’d stwone, Vor Christ to teäke ye vor his own, When harvest work wer all a-done, An’ time brought round October zun—  The slantèn light o’ Fall.
An’ I can mind the wind wer rough,  An’ gather’d clouds, but brought noo storms, ​An’ you did nessle warm enough,  ’Ithin your smilèn mother’s eärms. The whindlèn grass did quiver light, Among the stubble, feäded white, An’ if at times the zunlight broke Upon the ground, or on the vo’k,  ’Twer slantèn light o’ Fall.
An’ when we brought ye drough the door  O’ Knapton Church, a child o’ greäce, There cluster’d round a’most a score  O’ vo’k to zee your tiny feäce. An’ there we all did veel so proud, To zee an’ op’nèn in the cloud, An’ then a stream o’ light break drough, A-sheenèn brightly down on you—  The slantèn light o’ Fall.
But now your time’s a-come to stand  In church, a-blushèn at my zide, The while a bridegroom vrom my hand  Ha’ took ye vor his faïthvul bride. Your christèn neäme we gi’d ye here, When Fall did cool the weästèn year; An’ now, ageän, we brought ye drough The doorway, wi’ your surneäme new,  In slantèn light o’ Fall.
An’ zoo vur, Jeäne, your life is feäir,  An’ God ha’ been your steadvast friend, An’ mid ye have mwore jaÿ than ceäre,  Vor ever, till your journey’s end. An’ I’ve a-watch’d ye on wi’ pride, But now I soon mus’ leave your zide, Vor you ha’ still life’s spring-tide zun, But my life, Jeäne, is now a-run  To slantèn light o’ Fall.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Rwose in the Dark

THE RWOSE IN THE DARK.
In zummer, leäte at evenèn tide,  I zot to spend a moonless hour ’Ithin the window, wi’ the zide  A-bound wi’ rwoses out in flow’r, Bezide the bow’r, vorsook o’ birds, An’ listen’d to my true-love’s words.
​A-risèn to her comely height,  She push’d the swingèn ceäsement round; And I could hear, beyond my zight,  The win’-blow’d beech-tree softly sound, On higher ground, a-swaÿèn slow, On drough my happy hour below.
An’ tho’ the darkness then did hide  The dewy rwose’s blushèn bloom, He still did cast sweet air inside  To Jeäne, a-chattèn in the room; An’ though the gloom did hide her feäce, Her words did bind me to the pleäce.
An’ there, while she, wi’ runnèn tongue,  Did talk unzeen ’ithin the hall, I thought her like the rwose that flung  His sweetness vrom his darken’d ball, ’Ithout the wall, an’ sweet’s the zight Ov her bright feäce by mornèn light.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Settle an' the Girt Wood Vire

THE SETTLE AN’ THE GIRT WOOD VIRE.
Ah! naïghbour John, since I an’ you Wer youngsters, ev’ry thing is new. My father’s vires wer all o’ logs O’ cleft-wood, down upon the dogs Below our clavy, high, an’ brode Enough to teäke a cart an’ lwoad, Where big an’ little all zot down At bwoth zides, an’ bevore, all roun’. An’ when I zot among em, I Could zee all up ageän the sky Drough chimney, where our vo’k did hitch The zalt-box an’ the beäcon-vlitch, An’ watch the smoke on out o’ vier, All up an’ out o’ tun, an’ higher. An’ there wer beäcon up on rack, An’ pleätes an’ dishes on the tack; An’ roun’ the walls wer heärbs a-stowed In peäpern bags, an’ blathers blowed. An’ just above the clavy-bwoard Wer father’s spurs, an’ gun, an’ sword; An’ there wer then, our girtest pride, The settle by the vier zide.  Ah! gi’e me, if I wer a squier,  The settle an’ the girt wood vier.
But they’ve a-wall’d up now wi’ bricks The vier pleäce vor dogs an’ sticks, An’ only left a little hole To teäke a little greäte o’ coal, So small that only twos or drees Can jist push in an’ warm their knees. An’ then the carpets they do use, Bēn’t fit to tread wi’ ouer shoes; ​An’ chairs an’ couches be so neat, You mussen teäke em vor a seat: They be so fine, that vo’k mus’ pleäce All over em an’ outer ceäse, An’ then the cover, when ’tis on, Is still too fine to loll upon.  Ah! gi’e me, if I wer a squier,  The settle an’ the girt wood vier.
Carpets, indeed! You coulden hurt The stwone-vloor wi’ a little dirt; Vor what wer brought in doors by men, The women soon mopp’d out ageän. Zoo we did come vrom muck an’ mire, An’ walk in straïght avore the vier; But now, a man’s a-kept at door At work a pirty while, avore He’s screäp’d an’ rubb’d, an’ cleän and fit To goo in where his wife do zit. An’ then if he should have a whiff In there, ’twould only breed a miff: He cānt smoke there, vor smoke woon’t goo ’Ithin the footy little flue.  Ah! gi’e me, if I wer a squier,  The settle an’ the girt wood vier.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Shep'erd Bwoy

THE SHEP’ERD BWOY.
When the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill,  An’ the vlock ’s a-spread over the ground; When the vaïce o’ the busy wold sheep dog is still,  An’ the sheep-bells do tinkle all round;  Where noo tree vor a sheäde but the thorn is a-vound,  There, a zingèn a zong,  Or a-whislèn among The sheep, the young shep’erd do bide all day long.
When the storm do come up wi’ a thundery cloud  That do shut out the zunlight, an’ high Over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud,  An’ the lightnèn do flash vrom the sky,  Where noo shelter’s a-vound but his hut, that is nigh,  There out ov all harm,  In the dry an’ the warm, The poor little shep’erd do smile at the storm.
When the cwold winter win’ do blow over the hill,  An’ the hore-vrost do whiten the grass, An’ the breath o’ the no’th is so cwold, as to chill  The warm blood ov woone’s heart as do pass;  When the ice o’ the pond is so slipp’ry as glass,  There, a-zingèn a zong,  Or a-whislèn among The sheep, the poor shep’erd do bide all day long.
When the shearèn’s a-come, an’ the shearers do pull  In the sheep, hangèn back a-gwaïn in, Wi’ their roun’ zides a-heavèn in under their wool,  To come out all a-clipp’d to the skin;  When the feästèn, an’ zingèn, an fun do begin,  Vor to help em, an’ sheäre  All their me’th an’ good feäre, The poor little shep’erd is sure to be there.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Shy Man

THE SHY MAN.
Ah! good Meäster Gwillet, that you mid ha’ know’d, War a-bred up at Coomb, an’ went little abroad; An’ if he got in among strangers, he velt His poor heart in a twitter, an’ ready to melt; Or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, he met Wi’ zome maïdens a·titt’rèn, he burn’d wi’ a het, That shot all drough the lim’s o’n, an’ left a cwold zweat,  The poor little chap wer so shy,  He wer ready to drap, an’ to die.
But at last ’twer the lot o’ the poor little man To vall deeply in love, as the best ov us can; An’ ’twer noo easy task vor a shy man to tell Sich a dazzlèn feäir maïd that he loved her so well; ​An’ woone day when he met her, his knees nearly smote Woone another, an’ then wi’ a struggle he bro’t A vew vords to his tongue, wi’ some mwore in his droat.  But she, ’ithout doubt, could soon vind  Vrom two words that come out, zix behind.
Zoo at langth, when he vound her so smilèn an’ kind, Why he wrote her zome laïns, vor to tell her his mind, Though ’twer then a hard task vor a man that wer shy, To be married in church, wi’ a crowd stannèn by. But he twold her woone day, “I have housen an’ lands. We could marry by licence, if you don’t like banns,” An’ he cover’d his eyes up wi’ woone ov his han’s,  Vor his head seem’d to zwim as he spoke,  An’ the aïr look’d so dim as a smoke.
Well! he vound a good naïghbour to goo in his pleäce Vor to buy the goold ring, vor he hadden the feäce. An’ when he went up vor to put in the banns, He did sheäke in his lags, an’ did sheäke in his han’s. Then they ax’d vor her neäme, an’ her parish or town, An’ he gi’ed em a leaf, wi’ her neäme a-wrote down; Vor he coulden ha’ twold em outright, vor a poun’,  Vor his tongue wer so weak an’ so loose,  When he wanted to speak ’twer hoo use.
Zoo they went to be married, an’ when they got there All the vo’k wer a-gather’d as if ’twer a feäir, An’ he thought, though his pleäce mid be pleazèn to zome, He could all but ha’ wish’d that he hadden a-come. The bride wer a-smilèn as fresh as a rwose, An’ when he come wi’ her, an’ show’d his poor nose, All the little bwoys shouted, an’ cried “There he goes,”  “There he goes.” Oh! vor his peärt he velt  As if the poor heart o’n would melt.
​An’ when they stood up by the chancel together, Oh! a man mid ha’ knock’d en right down wi’ a veather, He did veel zoo asheäm’d that he thought he would rather He wërden the bridegroom, but only the father. But, though ’tis so funny to zee en so shy, Yeet his mind is so lowly, his aïms be so high, That to do a meän deed, or to tell woone a lie,  You’d vind that he’d shun mwore by half,  Than to stan’ vor vo’ks fun, or their laugh.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Sparrow Club

THE SPARROW CLUB.
Last night the merry farmers’ sons,  Vrom biggest down to leäst, min, Gi’ed in the work of all their guns,  An’ had their sparrow feäst, min. An’ who vor woone good merry soul  Should goo to sheäre their me’th, min, But Gammon Gaÿ, a chap so droll,  He’d meäke ye laugh to death, min.
Vor heads o’ sparrows they’ve a-shot  They’ll have a prize in cwein, min, That is, if they can meäke their scot,  Or else they’ll paÿ a fine, min. An’ all the money they can teäke  ’S a-gather’d up there-right, min, ​An’ spent in meat an’ drink, to meäke  A supper vor the night, min.
Zoo when they took away the cloth,  In middle of their din, min, An’ cups o’ eäle begun to froth,  Below their merry chin, min. An’ when the zong, by turn or chaïce,  Went roun’ vrom tongue to tongue, min, Then Gammon pitch’d his merry vaïce,  An’ here’s the zong he zung, min.
Zong.
If you’ll but let your clackers rest  Vrom jabberèn an’ hootèn, I’ll teäke my turn, an’ do my best,  To zing o’ sparrow shootèn. Since every woone mus’ pitch his key,  An’ zing a zong, in coo’se, lads, Why sparrow heads shall be to-day  The heads o’ my discoo’se, lads.
We’ll zend abroad our viery haïl  Till ev’ry foe’s a-vled, lads, An’ though the rogues mid all turn taïl,  We’ll quickly show their head, lads. In corn, or out on oben ground,  In bush, or up in tree, lads, If we don’t kill em, I’ll be bound,  We’ll meäke their veathers vlee, lads.
Zoo let the belted spwortsmen brag  When they’ve a-won a neäme, so’s, That they do vind, or they do bag,  Zoo many head o’ geäme, so’s: ​Vor when our cwein is woonce a-won,  By heads o’ sundry sizes, Why, who can slight what we’ve a-done?  We’ve all a-won head prizes.
Then teäke a drap vor harmless fun,  But not enough to quarrel; Though where a man do like the gun,  He can’t but need the barrel. O’ goodly feäre, avore we’ll start,  We’ll zit an’ teäke our vill, min; Our supper-bill can be but short,  ’Tis but a sparrow-bill, min.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Rwose that Deck'd her Breast

THE RWOSE THAT DECK’D HER BREAST.
Poor Jenny wer her Robert’s bride Two happy years, an’ then he died; An’ zoo the wold vo’k meäde her come, Vorseäken, to her maïden hwome. ​But Jenny’s merry tongue wer dum’;  An’ round her comely neck she wore  A murnèn kerchif, where avore  The rwose did deck her breast.
She walk’d alwone, wi’ eye-balls wet, To zee the flow’rs that she’d a-zet; The lilies, white’s her maïden frocks, The spike, to put ’ithin her box, Wi’ columbines an’ hollyhocks;  The jilliflow’r an’ noddèn pink,  An’ rwose that touch’d her soul to think  Ov woone that deck’d her breast.
Vor at her weddèn, just avore Her maïden hand had yet a-wore A wife’s goold ring, wi’ hangèn head She walk’d along thik flower-bed, Where stocks did grow, a-staïned wi’ red,  An’ meärygoolds did skirt the walk,  An’ gather’d vrom the rwose’s stalk  A bud to deck her breast.
An’ then her cheak, wi’ youthvul blood Wer bloomèn as the rwoses bud; But now, as she wi’ grief do pine, ’Tis peäle’s the milk-white jessamine. But Robert have a-left behine  A little beäby wi’ his feäce,  To smile, an’ nessle in the pleäce  Where the rwose did deck her breast.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Scud

THE SCUD.
Aye, aye, the leäne wi’ flow’ry zides A-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides, Wi’ beds o’ grægles out in bloom, Below the timber’s windless gloon An’ geäte that I’ve a-swung, An’ rod as he’s a-hung, When I wer young, in Woakley Coomb.
​’Twer there at feäst we all did pass The evenèn on the leänezide grass, Out where the geäte do let us drough, Below the woak-trees in the lew, In merry geämes an’ fun That meäde us skip an’ run, Wi’ burnèn zun, an’ sky o’ blue.
But still there come a scud that drove The titt’rèn maïdens vrom the grove; An’ there a-left wer flow’ry mound, ’Ithout a vaïce, ’ithout a sound, Unless the aïr did blow, Drough ruslèn leaves, an’ drow, The raïn drops low, upon the ground.
I linger’d there an’ miss’d the naïse; I linger’d there an’ miss’d our jaÿs; I miss’d woone soul beyond the rest; The maïd that I do like the best. Vor where her vaïce is gaÿ An’ where her smiles do plaÿ, There’s always jaÿ vor ev’ry breast.
Vor zome vo’k out abroad ha’ me’th. But nwone at hwome bezide the he’th; An’ zome ha’ smiles vor strangers’ view: An’ frowns vor kith an’ kin to rue; But her sweet vaïce do vall, Wi’ kindly words to all, Both big an’ small, the whole day drough.
An’ when the evenèn sky wer peäle, We heärd the warblèn nightèngeäle, A-drawèn out his lwonesome zong, In windèn music down the drong; An’ Jenny vrom her he’th, ​Come out, though not in me’th, But held her breath, to hear his zong
Then, while the bird wi’ oben bill Did warble on, her vaïce wer still; An’ as she stood avore me, bound In stillness to the flow’ry mound, “The bird’s a jaÿ to zome,” I thought, “but when he’s dum, Her vaïce will come, wi’ sweeter sound.”
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Shepherd o' the Farm

THE SHEPHERD O’ THE FARM.
Oh! I be shepherd o’ the farm,  Wi’ tinklèn bells an’ sheep-dog’s bark, An’ wi’ my crook a-thirt my eärm,  Here I do rove below the lark.
An’ I do bide all day among  The bleäten sheep, an’ pitch their vwold; An’ when the evenèn sheädes be long.  Do zee em all a-penn’d an’ twold.
An’ I do zee the friskèn lam’s,  Wi’ swingèn taïls an’ woolly lags, A-playèn roun’ their veedèn dams,  An’ pullèn o’ their milky bags.
An’ I bezide a hawthorn tree,  Do’ zit upon the zunny down. While sheädes o’ zummer clouds do vlee  Wi’ silent flight along the groun’.
​An’ there, among the many cries  O’ sheep an’ lambs, my dog do pass A zultry hour, wi’ blinkèn eyes,  An’ nose a-stratch’d upon the grass;
But, in a twinklèn, at my word,  He’s all awake, an’ up, an’ gone Out roun’ the sheep lik’ any bird,  To do what he’s a-zent upon.
An’ I do goo to washèn pool,  A-sousèn over head an’ ears, The shaggy sheep, to cleän their wool  An’ meäke em ready vor the sheärs.
An’ when the shearèn time do come,  Then we do work vrom dawn till dark; Where zome do shear the sheep, and zome  Do mark their zides wi’ meästers mark.
An’ when the shearèn’s all a-done,  Then we do eat, an’ drink, an’ zing, In meäster’s kitchen till the tun  Wi’ merry sounds do sheäke an’ ring.
Oh! I be shepherd o’ the farm,  Wi’ tinklèn bells an’ sheep dog’s bark, An’ wi’ my crook a-thirt my eärm,  Here I do rove below the lark.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 54/February 1899/Minor Paragraphs

Layout 4
The phosphorescence, which is so beautiful a characteristic of certain forms of animal life in the sea, has been the cause of much speculation among the fishermen and scientists; none of the proposed theories have been entirely satisfactory. It is now stated, however, that an adequate and provable cause has been discovered in a so-called species of photo-bacteria; by means of this germ it is stated that sea water, containing nutrient media, can be inoculated and rendered phosphorescent; that newly caught herrings with the sea water still fresh can be rendered phosphorescent by a treatment which favors the growth of the photo-bacteria. Oxygen is an essential to their growth.
Personal equation was defined by Prof. T. H. Safford, in a paper read at the American Association, as in reality the time it takes to think; and as that time is different in different persons, observations are liable to be affected by it unless correct allowance is made for it in the case of each one. It has been a subject of discussion since the end of the last century. The Astronomer Royal of England discharged a good assistant in 1795, because he was liable to observe stars more than half a second too late. Bond, several years afterward, took the subject up and found that astronomers were liable to vary a little in their observations; some to anticipate the time by a trifle, and others falling a little behind. The subject has since been studied by Prof essor Wundt. In the days when the eye-and ear method of observation prevailed, the astronomer had both to watch bis object and to keep note of the time; with the introduction of the chronograph, the errors resulting from this necessity are in part obviated. But error enough still exists to be troublesome.
The Educational Extension Work in Agriculture of Cornell University Experiment Station is carried on by the publication and distribution of leaflets, visitation of teachers' institutes, and other means that may bring the station in contact with the people. The results of the work have been generally satisfactory. Eight leaflets, on such subjects as How a Squash Plant gets out of the Seed, A Children's Garden, etc., were published last year in from two to six editions, and still meet a lively demand. Thirty thousand teachers were enrolled on the lists as receiving leaflets, or as students of methods of presenting Nature study to their pupils, sixteen thousand school children were receiving leaflets suitable to them, and twenty-five ​hundred young farmers were enrolled in the Agricultural Reading Course. Much interest seems to have been shown by farmers in sugar-beet culture, in investigations of which more than three hundred of them are cooperating with the station, and two hundred in experiments with fertilizers.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/21

My Lady Hyde, Sitting for her Picture.
WHILE Kneller with inimitable Art Attempts that Face, whose Print's on ev'ry Heart, The Poet with a Pencil less confin'd Shall draw her Virtues, and describe her Mind, Unlock the Shrine, and to the Sight unfold The secret Gems, and all the inward Gold.
Two only Patterns do the Muses name Of perfect Beauty, but of guilty Fame; A Venus and a Hellen have been seen, Both perjur'd Wives, the Goddess and the Queen. In this, the Third, are reconcil'd at last Those jarring Attributes of Fair and Chast. This dazling Beauty is a lovely Case Of shining Virtue, spotless as her Face, With Graces that attract, but not ensnare, Divinely good, as she's divinely fair: With Beauty nor affected, vain, nor proud, With Greatness easie, affable, and good. Others, by guilty Artifice, and Arts, Of promis'd Kindness, practise on our Hearts, With Expectation blow the Passion up; She fans the Fire without one Gale of Hope: Like the chaste Moon, she shines to all Mankind, But to Endymion is her Love confin'd. What cruel Destiny on Beauty waits, When on one Face depend so many Fates! Oblig'd by Honour to relieve but One, Unhappy Men by Thousands are undone.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/17

To MYRA. SONG.
I'LL tell her the next time, said I: In vain! in vain! for when I try, Upon my timorous Tongue the trembling Accents die. Alas! a thousand thousand Fears Still over-awe when she appears, My Breath is spent in Sighs, my Eyes are drown'd in Tears.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/18

To Myra. Loving at first Sight.
I.
NO warning, of th' approaching Flame, Swiftly like sudden Death it came, Like Travellers by Light'ning kill'd, I burnt the Moment I beheld.
II.
Is with a Mind as noble grac'd; The Case, so shining to behold, Is fill'd with richest Gems and Gold.
III.
I add a thousand Graces more;
And Fancy blows into a Flame The Spark, that from her Beauty came.
IV.
By my own Image I am caught: Pygmalion so, with fatal Art, Polish'd the Form that stung his Heart.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/24

To a very learned young Lady.
LOVE, like a Tyrant whom no Laws constrain, Now for some Ages kept the World in Pain; Beauty by vast Destructions got Renown, And Lovers only by their Rage were known; But Delia, more auspicious to Mankind, Conqu'ring the Heart, as much instructs the Mind; Blest in the Fate of her victorious Eyes, Seeing, we love, and hearing, we grow wise:
So Rome, for Wisdom as for Conquest fam'd, Improv'd with Arts whom she by Arms had tam'd.
Above the Clouds is plac'd this glorious Light, Nothing lies hid from her enquiring Sight; Athens and Rome for Arts restor'd rejoice, Their Language takes new Musick from her Voice. Learning and Love in the same Seat we find, So bright her Form, and so adorn'd's her Mind.
Long has Minerva govern'd in the Skies But now descends, confest to human Eyes: Behold in Delia that inspiring Queen Whom learned Athens so ador'd unseen.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/16

To Myra. The Surrender.
NOW fly, Discretion, to my Aid, See haughty Myra, fair and bright, In all the Pomp of Love array'd, Ah now I tremble at her Sight! She comes! She comes! Before her all Mankind does prostrate fall. Love, a Destroyers fierce and young, Adventrous, terrible, and strong, Cruel and rash, delighting still to vex, Sparing nor Age nor Sex, Commands in chief: Well fortify'd he lies, And from her Lips, her Cheeks, her Eyes, All Opposition he defies. Reason, Love's old inveterate Foe, Scarce ever reconcil'd 'til now, Reason assists her too. A wise Commander he, for Council fit, But nice and coy, nor has been seen to sit
In modern Synods, nor appear'd of late In Courts, or Camps, or in Affairs of State; Reason proclaims 'em all his Foes, Who such resistless Charms oppose. My very Bosom Er ends make War Within my Breast, and in her Int'rests are; Esteem and judgment with strong Fancy join, To call the fair Invader in; My darling Favourite, Inclination too, All, all conspiring with the Foe! Ah! whither shall I fly to hide My Weakness from the Conqueror's Pride? Now, now, Discretion be my Guide! But see, this mighty Archimedes too Surrenders now; Presuming longer to resist, His very Name Discretion must disclaim, Folly and Madness only wou'd persist.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/22

Written in a Garden in the North.
WHAT Charm is this, that in the midst of Snow, Of Storms and Blasts, the noblest Fruits do grow? Mellons on Beds of Ice are taught to bear, And Strangers to the Sun, yet ripen here: On frozen Ground the sweetest Flowers arise, Unseen by any Light but Flavia's Eyes: Where-e'er she treads, beneath the Charmer's Feet The Rose, the Jas'min, and the Lillies meet: Where-e'er she looks, behold some sudden Birth Adorns the Trees, and fructifies the Earth: In midst of Mountains and unfruitful Ground, As rich an Eden as the first is found. In this new Paradise she reigns in State With Sov'reign Pride, disdainful of a Mate, Like the first Charmer fair, but not so frail, Against whose Virtue all Temptations fail: Beneath those Beams that scorch us from her Eyes, Her snowy Bosom still unmelted lyes; Love from her Lips spreads all his Odours round, But bears on Ice, and springs from frozen Ground. So cold the Clime that can such Wonders bear, The Garden seem an Emblem of the Fair.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/23

To DAPHNE.
A Roman and a Greek our Praise divide, Nor can we yet who best deserv'd, decide: Behold two mighty Conquerors appear, Some for your Wit, some for your Eyes declare, Debates arise which captivates us most, And none can tell the Charm by which he's lost. The Bow and Quiver does Diana bear, Cybel the Lions, Pallas has the Spear; Poets such Emblems to their Gods assign; Hearts bleeding by the Dart, and Pen, be thine.