OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Way of the World/Epilogue

EPILOGUE
Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
After our Epilogue this crowd dismisses, I'm thinking how this play'll be pulled to pieces. But pray consider, e'er you doom its fall, How hard a thing 'twould be to please you all. There are some critics so with spleen diseased, They scarcely come inclining to be pleased: And sure he must have more than mortal skill Who pleases anyone against his will. Then, all bad poets we are sure are foes, And how their number's swelled the town well knows In shoals, I've marked 'em judging in the pit; Though they're on no pretence for judgment fit, But that they have been damned for want of wit. Since when, they, by their own offences taught, Set up for spies on plays, and finding fault. Others there are whose malice we'd prevent: Such, who watch plays, with scurrilous intent To mark out who by characters are meant: And though no perfect likeness they can trace, Yet each pretends to know the copied face. These, with false glosses, feed their own ill-nature, And turn to libel what was meant a satire. May such malicious fops this fortune find, To think themselves alone the fools designed: If any are so arrogantly vain, To think they singly can support a scene, And furnish fool enough to entertain. For well the learned and the judicious know, That satire scorns to stoop so meanly low, As any one abstracted fop to show. For, as when painters form a matchless face, They from each fair one catch some diff'rent grace, And shining features in one portrait blend, To which no single beauty must pretend: So poets oft do in one piece expose Whole BELLES ASSEMBLEES of coquettes and beaux.
# The Way of the World/Prologue

PROLOGUE Spoken by Mr. Betterton.
Of those few fools, who with ill stars are curst, Sure scribbling fools, called poets, fare the worst: For they're a sort of fools which fortune makes, And, after she has made 'em fools, forsakes. With Nature's oafs 'tis quite a diff'rent case, For Fortune favours all her idiot race. In her own nest the cuckoo eggs we find, O'er which she broods to hatch the changeling kind: No portion for her own she has to spare, So much she dotes on her adopted care.
Poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in, Suffered at first some trifling stakes to win: But what unequal hazards do they run! Each time they write they venture all they've won: The Squire that's buttered still, is sure to be undone. This author, heretofore, has found your favour, But pleads no merit from his past behaviour. To build on that might prove a vain presumption, Should grants to poets made admit resumption, And in Parnassus he must lose his seat, If that be found a forfeited estate.
He owns, with toil he wrought the following scenes, But if they're naught ne'er spare him for his pains: Damn him the more; have no commiseration For dulness on mature deliberation. He swears he'll not resent one hissed-off scene, Nor, like those peevish wits, his play maintain, Who, to assert their sense, your taste arraign. Some plot we think he has, and some new thought; Some humour too, no farce--but that's a fault. Satire, he thinks, you ought not to expect; For so reformed a town who dares correct? To please, this time, has been his sole pretence, He'll not instruct, lest it should give offence. Should he by chance a knave or fool expose, That hurts none here, sure here are none of those. In short, our play shall (with your leave to show it) Give you one instance of a passive poet, Who to your judgments yields all resignation: So save or damn, after your own discretion.
# The Way that Lovers use

* "The Way that Lovers Use" from 1914 and other poems (1915)
* "The Way That Lovers Use" from The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke (1915)
# The Way to Wealth (2)

NEW AND IMPROVED SERIES.
No. 7.
THE
WAY TO WEALTH,
WITH
MAXIMS FOR MARRIED LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, &c.
BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
1850.
Price One Penny.
CONTENTS.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/On his Pitiable Transformation

LXXXIV
ON HIS PITIABLE TRANSFORMATION
I WHO was young so long, Young and alert and gay, Now that my hair is grey, Begin to change my song.
Now I know right from wrong, Now I know pay and pray, I who was young so long, Young and alert and gay.
​Now I follow the throng, Walk in the beaten way, Hear what the elders say, And own that I was wrong— I who was young so long.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/My brain swims empty and light

CXCI
MY brain swims empty and light Like a nut on a sea of oil; And an atmosphere of quiet Wraps me about from the turmoil and clamour of life.
I stand apart from living, Apart and holy I stand, In my new-gained growth of idleness, I stand, As stood the Shekinah of yore in the holy of holies.
I walk the streets smoking my pipe And I love the dallying shop-girl That leans with rounded stern to look at the fashions; And I hate the bustling citizen, The eager and hurrying man of affairs I hate, Because he bears his intolerance writ on his face And every movement and word of him tells me how much he hates me.
​I love night in the city, The lighted streets and the swinging gait of harlots. I love cool pale morning, In the empty bye-streets, With only here and there a female figure, A slavey with lifted dress and the key in her hand, A girl or two at play in a corner of waste-land Tumbling and showing their legs and crying out to me loosely.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/Men marvel at the works of man

CLXXI
MEN marvel at the works of man And with unstinted praises sing The greatness of some worldly thing Encompassed during one life's span; An empire built, kingdom born. And straightway men sound man's own horn.
The human brain's a wondrous work, So chant the sages and the deans— Those thought and labour go-betweens, Who ever life's deep mysteries shirk. A steel ribbed ship, an engine new— Ah, mighty things strong man doth do!
Man rears great piles of chiselled stone, And builds across the roaring streams, And tunnels mountains while he dreams Of sterner tasks to do alone. 'Tis I, he says, these things have wrought— Through darkness to the heights I've fought.
​But comes a time when in his might The man of sceptre or of gold Is laid upon the marble cold, And soul within takes hurried flight. The wondrous man is but a clod As lowly as the earth he trod.
Far in the realm of the unknown A little light has found its way A flicker in the newer day That hallows round a Godly throne; Once housed in the Eternal Land The light perceives the Master Hand.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/Not roses to the rose, I trow

CLXXIX
NOT roses to the rose, I trow, The thistle sends, nor to the bee Do wasps bring honey. Wherefore now Should Locker ask a verse from me?
Martial, perchance,—but he is dead, And Herrick now must rhyme no more; Still burning with the muse, they tread (And arm in arm) the shadowy shore.
They, if they lived, with dainty hand, To music as of mountain brooks, Might bring you worthy words to stand Unshamed, dear Locker, in your books.
​But tho' these fathers of your race Be gone before, yourself a sire, To-day you see before your face Your stalwart youngsters touch the lyre.
On these—on Lang, or Dobson—call, Long leaders of the songful feast. They lend a verse your laughing fall— A verse they owe you at the least.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/From Wishing-land

IX
FROM WISHING-LAND
DEAR Lady, tapping at your door, Some little verses stand, And beg on this auspicious day To come and kiss your hand.
Their syllables all counted right Their rhymes each in its place, Like birthday children, at the door They wait to see your face.
Rise, lady, rise and let them in; Fresh from the fairy shore, They bring you things you wish to have, Each in its pinafore.
For they have been to Wishing-land This morning in the dew, And all your dearest wishes bring— All granted—home to you.
What these may be, they would not tell, And could not if they would; They take the packets sealed to you As trusty servants should.
But there was one that looked like love, And one that smelt like health, And one that had a jingling sound— I fancy it might be wealth.
​Ah, well, they are but wishes still; But, lady dear, for you I know that all you wish is kind, I pray it all come true.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/O Henley, in my hours of ease

CLXXXIV
O HENLEY, in my hours of ease You may say anything you please, But when I join the Muses' revel, Begad, I wish you at the devil! ​In vain my verse I plane and bevel, Like Banville's rhyming devotees; In vain by many an artful swivel Lug in my meaning by degrees; I'm sure to hear my Henley cavil; And grovelling prostrate on my knees, Devote his body to the seas, His correspondence to the devil!
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/Song

CLXIX
SONG
LIGHT foot and tight foot, And green grass spread, Early in the morning, But hope is on ahead.
Brief day and bright day, And sunset red, Early in the evening, The stars are overhead.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/Here you rest among the valleys

CLXXXIX
HERE you rest among the valleys, maiden known to but a few, Here you sleep unsighing, but how oft of yore you sighed! And how oft your feet elastic trod a measure in the dew On a green beside the river ere you died!
​Where are now the country lovers whom you trembled to be near— Who, with shy advances, in the falling eventide, Grasped thee tighter at your fingers, whispered lowlier in your ear, On a green beside the river ere you died?
All the sweet old country dancers who went round with you in tune, Dancing, flushed and silent, in the silent eventide, All departed by enchantment at the rising of the moon From the green beside the river when you died.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/Rondels

LXXVIII
RONDELS
1
FAR have you come, my lady, from the town, And far from all your sorrows, if you please, To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas, And in green meadows lay your body down.
To find your pale face grow from pale to brown, Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees; Far have you come, my lady, from the town, And far from all your sorrows, if you please.
Here in this seaboard land of old renown, In meadow grass go wading to the knees; Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease; There is no sorrow but the sea can drown; Far have you come, my lady, from the town.
2
Nous n'irons plus au bois
We'll walk the woods no more, But stay beside the fire, To weep for old desire And things that are no more. The woods are spoiled and hoar, The ways are full of mire; We'll walk the woods no more, ​But stay beside the fire. We loved, in days of yore, Love, laughter, and the lyre. Ah God, but death is dire, And death is at the door— We'll walk the woods no more.
3
Since I am sworn to live my life And not to keep an easy heart, Some men may sit and drink apart, I bear a banner in the strife.
Some can take quiet thought to wife, I am all day at tierce and carte, Since I am sworn to live my life And not to keep an easy heart.
I follow gaily to the fife, Leave Wisdom bowed above a chart, And Prudence brawling in the mart, And dare Misfortune to the knife, Since I am sworn to live my life.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/On Some Ghostly Companions at a Spa

CLXXXVI
ON SOME GHOSTLY COMPANIONS AT A SPA
I HAD an evil day when I To Strathpeffer drew anigh, For there I found no human soul, But ogres occupied the whole. They had at first a human air In coats and flannel underwear. They rose and walked upon their feet And filled their bellies full of meat, Then wiped their lips when they had done— But they were ogres every one. Each issuing from his secret bower I marked them in the morning hour. By limp and totter, lisp and droop I singled each one from the group. Detected ogres, from my sight Depart to your congenial night From these fair vales: from this fair day Fleet, spectres, on your downward way, Like changing figures in a dream To Muttonhole and Pittenweem! Or, as by harmony divine The devils quartered in the swine, If any baser place exist In God's great registration list— Some den with wallow and a trough— Find it, ye ogres, and be off!
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Sketch of the Character of Aristotle

SKETCH OF THE CHARACTER
OF
ARISTOTLE.
ARISTOTLE, the disciple of Plato, and tutor to Alexander the Great. His followers were called peripateticks, from a Greek word which signifies to walk, because he taught his disciples walking. We have not all his works, and some of those which are imputed to him are supposed not genuine. He writ upon logick, or the art of reasoning; upon moral and natural philosophy; upon oratory, poetry, &c. and seems to be a person of the most comprehensive genius that ever lived.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/The Dean's Complaint Translated and Answered

THE DEAN'S COMPLAINT, TRANSLATED AND ANSWERED.
DOCTOR.
DEAF, giddy, helpless, left alone.
ANSWER.
Except the first, the fault's your own.
DOCTOR.
To all my friends a burden grown.
ANSWER.
Because to few you will be shown. Give them good wine, and meat to stuff, You may have company enough.
DOCTOR.
No more I hear my church's bell, Than if it rang out for my knell.
ANSWER.
Then write and read, 'twill do as well.
DOCTOR.
At thunder now no more I start, Than at the rumbling of a cart.
ANSWER.
Think then of thunder when you f—t.
DOCTOR.
Nay, what's incredible, alack! No more I hear a woman's clack.
ANSWER.
A woman's clack, if I have skill, Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill; But louder than a bell, or thunder; That does, I own, increase my wonder.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/On the Dean of St. Patrick's Birthday; being on Nov. 30, St. Andrew's Day

ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S BIRTHDAY.
BEING ON NOV. 30, ST. ANDREW'S DAY.
BETWEEN the hours of twelve and one, When half the world to rest were gone, Entranced in softest sleep I lay, Forgetful of an anxious day; From every care and labour free, My soul as calm as it could be. The queen of dreams, well pleas'd to find An undisturb'd and vacant mind, With magick pencil trac'd my brain, And there she drew St. Patrick's dean; I straight beheld on either hand Two saints, like guardian angels, stand, And either claim'd him for their son, And thus the high dispute begun: St. Andrew first, with reason strong, Maintain'd to him he did belong. "Swift is my own, by right divine, All born upon this day are mine." St. Patrick said, "I own this true, So far he does belong to you: But in my church he's born again, My son adopted, and my dean. When first the Christian truth I spread, The poor within this isle I fed, And darkest errours banish'd hence, Made knowledge in their place commence: ​Nay more, at my divine command, All noxious creatures fled the land. I made both peace and plenty smile. Hibernia was my favourite isle; Now his — for he succeeds to me, Two angels cannot more agree. "His joy is, to relieve the poor; Behold them weekly at his door! His knowledge too, in brightest rays, He like the sun to all conveys, Shows wisdom in a single page, And in one hour instructs an age. When ruin lately stood around Th' enclosures of my sacred ground, He gloriously did interpose, And saved it from invading foes; For this I claim immortal Swift, As my own son, and Heaven's best gift." The Caledonian saint enrag'd, Now closer in dispute engag'd, Essays to prove, by transmigration, The dean is of the Scottish nation; And, to confirm the truth, he chose The loyal soul of great Montrose; "Montrose and he are both the same, They only differ in the name: Both heroes in a righteous cause, Assert their liberties and laws; He's now the same, Montrose was then, But that the sword is turn'd a pen, A pen of so great power, each word Defends beyond the hero's sword." Now words grew high — we can't suppose Immortals ever come to blows. ​ But least unruly passion should Degrade them into flesh and blood, An angel quick from Heaven descends, And he at once the contest ends: "Ye reverend pair from discord cease, Ye both mistake the present case; One kingdom cannot have pretence To so much virtue! so much sense! Search Heaven's record; and there you'll find, That he was born for all mankind."
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Spectator, No. 575, Passage by Swift

​In the Spectator, No. 575, August 2, 1714, the following article was proposed by Dr. Swift:
"The following question is started by one of the schoolmen: Supposing the whole body of the earth were a great ball or mass of the finest sand, and that a single grain or particle of this sand should be annihilated every thousand years. Supposing then that you had it in your choice to be happy all the while this prodigious mass of sand was consuming by this slow method, until there was not a grain of it left, on condition you were to be miserable for ever after; or supposing that you might be happy for ever after, on condition you would be miserable until the whole mass of sand were thus annihilated at the rate of one sand in a thousand years: which of these two cases would you make your choice?"
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/The Dog and Shadow

THE DOG AND SHADOW.
ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis, Apparet liquido prædæ melioris imago: Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et alte Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice præceps Ore cibus, nec non simulachrum corripit una. Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram; Illudit species, ac dentibus aëra mordet.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Prometheus: On Wood's Halfpence

PROMETHEUS.
ON
WOOD THE PATENTEE'S IRISH HALFPENCE. 1724.
I.
AS when the squire and tinker Wood, Gravely consulting Ireland's good, Together mingled in a mass Smith's dust, and copper, lead, and brass; The mixture thus by chymick art United close in ev'ry part, In fillets roll'd, or cut in pieces, Appear'd like one continued species; And, by the forming engine struck, On all the same impression stuck. So, to confound this hated coin, All parties and religions join; Whigs, tories, trimmers, Hanoverians, Quakers, conformists, presbyterians, ​Scotch, Irish, English, French unite, With equal int'rest, equal spite; Together mingled in a lump, Do all in one opinion jump; And ev'ry one begins to find The same impression on his mind. A strange event! whom gold incites To blood and quarrels, brass unites: So goldsmiths say, the coarsest stuff Will serve for solder well enough: So by the kettle's loud alarm The bees are gathered to a swarm: So by the brazen trumpet's bluster Troops of all tongues and nations muster: And so the harp of Ireland brings Whole crowds about its brazen strings.
II.
There is a chain let down from Jove, But fasten'd to his throne above, So strong that from the lower end, They say, all human things depend. This chain, as ancient poets hold, When Jove was young, was made of gold. Prometheus once this chain purloin'd, Dissolved, and into money coin'd; Then whips me on a chain of brass: (Venus was bribed to let it pass.) Now while this brazen chain prevail'd, Jove saw that all devotion fail'd; No temple to his godship raised; No sacrifice at altars blazed; ​ In short, such dire confusion follow'd, Earth must have been in chaos swallow'd. Jove stood amazed; but looking round, With much ado the cheat he found; 'Twas plain he could no longer hold The world in any chain but gold; And to the god of wealth, his brother, Sent Mercury to get another. Prometheus on a rock is laid, Tied with a chain himself had made, On icy Caucasus to shiver, While vultures eat his growing liver.
III.
Ye pow'rs of Grub street, make me able Discreetly to apply this fable; Say, who is to be understood By that old thief Prometheus?Wood. For Jove it is not hard to guess him; I mean his majesty, God bless him. This thief and blacksmith was so bold, He strove to steal that chain of gold, Which links the subject to the king, And change it for a brazen string. But sure, if nothing else must pass Between the king and us but brass, Although the chain will never crack, Yet our devotion may grow slack. But Jove will soon convert, I hope, This brazen chain into a rope; With which Prometheus shall be tied, And high in air for ever ride; Where, if we find his liver grows, For want of vultures, we have crows.
* ↑ See an account of Wood's project in the Drapier's Letters.
* ↑ A great lady was said to have been bribed by Wood.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/On the Drapier

ON THE DRAPIER.
BY WILLIAM DUNKIN, D.D.
UNDONE by fools at home, abroad by knaves, The isle of saints became the land of slaves, Trembling beneath her proud oppressor's hand; But, when thy reason thunder'd through the land, Then all the publick spirit breath'd in thee, And all, except the sons of guilt, were free. Blest isle, blest patriot, ever glorious strife! You gave her freedom, as she gave you life! Thus Cato fought, whom Brutus copied well, And with those rights, for which you stand, he fell.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/On the Great Buried Bottle

ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE.
BY DR. DELANY.
AMPHORA, quæ mæstum linquis, lætumque revises Arentem dominum, sit tibi terra levis. Tu quoque depositum serves, neve opprime, marmor; Amphora non meruit tam pretiosa mori.
# The library: a magazine of bibliography and library literature/Volume 6

The Library.
The Library
A MAGAZINE OF BIBLIOGRAPHY AND LIBRARY LITERATURE EDITED BY J. Y. W. MAC ALISTER, F.S.A.
VOL. VI.
London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co. 4, Stationers' Hall Court, E.C.
1894
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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# The life and times of Master John Hus/Bibliography

BIBLIOGRAPHY
I have only attempted to note the names of some of the most prominent works that have been written on Hus, and of some to which I have devoted particular attention. The literature dealing with Hus and the cognate works referring to Wycliffe, which I quite omit, amount to an enormous mass of volumes. I here only mention some books referring mainly to Hus’s life and the history of Bohemia at his time. I therefore do not include works like Bishop Creighton’s History of the Papacy, though it contains—next to Mr. Wratislaw’s—the best account of Hus’s career written in English, or Dr. Harnack’s Dogmengeschichte, though the origin of some of Hus’s views is expounded here more clearly than anywhere else. The Bohemian periodicals entitled, Journal of the Bohemian Museum, Bohemian Historical Journal, Yearbook of the Bohemian Society of Sciences, and Yearbook of the Bohemian Academy, contain a vast amount of little-known information on Hus and his times. Messrs. Jirecek, Goll, Nedoma, Novotny, Patera, Gindely, Kalousik and many others have contributed valuable articles to these reviews on the subject of Hus.
I have given the names of these works as they are printed on the title-pages, adding an English translation only of those names which in the original are in Bohemian.
# The life and times of Master John Hus

* related portals: Czech lands, Christianity, Council of Constance, Biography.
* related authors: Jan Hus.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, quotes, Wikidata item.
THE LIFE & TIMES
OF
MASTER JOHN HUS
BY
THE COUNT LÜTZOW
Hon. D. Litt. Oxon., Hon. Ph.D. Prag., Author of A History of Bohemian Literature, Prague, etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
MCMIX LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO. NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
All rights reserved
CONTENTS
CHAP.PAGE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse