OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Truth about Marriage/Chapter31

CHAPTER XXXI
HOW MUCH CAN WE TRUST OUR MATE
Here is a question for married people. It may have an academic interest for the unmarried. It reads: "How much should you trust your husband or wife?"
Scarcely anything is more pitiable than a marriage where the man or the wife is unable for good reason to trust the other.
I heard of a case the other day of a young woman who took advantage of her opportunity to go out in the evening alone in search of diversion. She met in a public dance hall a young man who pleased her fancy, and to whom she was merely a foolish girl.
She said that she was married and showed her marriage ring, and to let him know how little she prized it she gave it to him to wear. You may be sure, however indifferent to honor the young man was, he did not value her evidence of interest. Men are like that.
​The husband noticed the absence of the ring and finally found out where it had gone. He went to the young man who had it and received it back, and without a fight, for the young man who had it in his pocket was glad to give it back.
Can you imagine a situation more pitiable? The husband actually loved his wife, although to my mind from things I saw, he was not much of a man. The wife evidently did not love him and was ready to be untrue to him. He could not trust her. What are they to do? I do not know. The woman was without either love or honor. She had no principle whatsoever. How far could he trust her? You have the answer.
But that is the dark side of the case, one of the many tragedies of life. We are thinking rather of people who have some sense of honor, some principles by which to guide their lives. How far can a husband trust his wife? How far can a wife trust her husband?
It is all a matter of character. If the wife is without that kind of character which comes from religion, or from high moral principle, she is walking along a slippery road.
If the man is without high moral principle, he also is in constant danger.
​You can trust your husband or your wife, if he or she has self-respect, respect for principle, respect for religion, has had planted in him or her inhibitions which make for correct living.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Flower-Salute

FLOWER-SALUTE.
This nosegay,—'twas I dressed it,— Greets thee a thousand times! Oft stooped I, and caressed it, Ah! full a thousand times, And 'gainst my bosom pressed it, A hundred thousand times!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Food in Travel

FOOD IN TRAVEL.
If to her eyes bright lustre I were blind, No longer would they serve my life to gild. The will of destiny must be fulfilled,— This knowing, I withdrew with saddened mind,
No further happiness I now could find; The former longings of my heart were stilled, I sought her looks alone, whereon to build My joy in life—all else was left behind.
Wine's genial glow, the festal banquet gay, Ease, sleep, and friends, all wonted pleasures glad I spurned, till little there remained to prove. ​Now calmly through the world I wend my way: That which I crave may everywhere be had, With me I bring the one thing needful—love.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Fortune of War

FORTUNE OF WAR.
Nought more accursed in war I know Than getting off scot-free; Inured to danger, on we go In constant victory; We first unpack, then pack again, With only this reward, That when we're marching, we complain, And when in camp are bored.
The time for billeting comes next,— The peasant curses it; Each nobleman is sorely vexed, 'Tis hated by the cit. Be civil, bad though be thy food, The clowns politely treat; If to our hosts we're ever rude, Jail-bread we're forced to eat.
And when the cannon growl around, And small arms rattle clear, And trumpet, trot, and drums resound, We merry all appear; And as it in the fight may chance, We yield, then charge amain, And now retire, and now advance, And yet a cross ne'er gain.
At length there comes a musket-ball, And hits the leg, please heaven; ​And then our troubles vanish all, For to the town we're driven, (Well covered by the victor's force), Where we in wrath first came,— The women, frightened then, of course, Are loving now and tame.
Cellar and heart are opened wide, The cook's allowed no rest: While beds with softest down supplied Are by our members pressed. The nimble lads upon us wait, No sleep the hostess takes; Her shift is torn in pieces straight,— What wondrous lint it makes!
If one has tended carefully The hero's wounded limb, Her neighbour cannot rest, for she Has also tended him. A third arrives in equal haste. At length they all are there, And in the middle he is placed Of the whole band so fair!
On good authority the king Hears how we love the fight, And bids them cross and ribbon bring, Our coat and breast to dight. Say if a better fate can e'er A son of Mars pursue! 'Midst tears at length we go from there. Beloved and honoured, too.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/First Loss

FIRST LOSS.
Ah! who'll ever those days restore, Those bright days of early love! Who'll one hour again concede, Of that time so fondly cherished! Silently my wounds I feed, And with wailing evermore Sorrow o'er each joy now perished. Ah! who'll e'er the days restore Of that time so fondly cherished!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/From "The Sorrows of Young Werther"

FROM "THE SORROWS OF YOUNG WERTHER"
[Prefixed to the second edition.]
Every youth for love's sweet portion sighs, Every maiden sighs to win man's love; Why, alas! should bitter pain arise From the noblest passion that we prove?
Thou, kind soul, bewailest, lovest him well, From disgrace his memory's saved by thee; Lo, his spirit sighs from out its cell: Be a man, nor seek to follow me.
Tender thoughts and sweet recollection, That is life in its greatest perfection.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Finnish Song

FINNISH SONG.
If the loved one, the well-known one, Should return as he departed, On his lips would ring my kisses, Though the wolf's blood might have dyed them; And a hearty grasp I'd give him, Though his finger-ends were serpents.
​Wind! Oh, if thou hadst but reason, Word for word in turns thou'dst carry, E'en though some perchance might perish 'Tween two lovers so far distant.
All choice morsels I'd dispense with, Table-flesh of priests neglect, too, Sooner than renounce my lover, Whom, in summer having vanquished, I in winter tamed still longer.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/From Egmont

FROM EGMONT.
ACT I.
Clara winds a skein and sings with Brackenburg.
The drum gives the signal! Loud rings the shrill fife! My love leads his troops on Full armed for the strife, While his hand grasps his lance As they proudly advance.
My bosom pants wildly! My blood hotly flows! Oh, had I doublet, A helmet, and hose! Through the gate with bold footstep I after him hied,— Each province, each country Explored by his side.
​The coward foe trembled When rattled our shot: What bliss e'er resembled A soldier's glad lot!
ACT III.
Clara sings.
Gladness And sadness And pensiveness blending; Yearning And burning In torment ne'er ending; Sad unto death. Proudly soaring above; Happy alone Is the soul that doth love!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/For Ever

FOR EVER.
The happiness that man, whilst prisoned here, Is wont with heavenly rapture to compare,— The harmony of Truth, from wavering clear,— Of Friendship that is free from doubting care,— The light which in stray thoughts alone can cheer The wise,—the bard alone in visions fair,— In my best hours I found in her all this, And made mine own, to mine exceeding bliss.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Shepherd's Lament

THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT.
Up yonder on the mountain, I dwelt for days together; Looked down into the valley, This pleasant summer weather.
My sheep go feeding onward, My dog sits watching by; I've wandered to the valley, And yet I know not why.
The meadow, it is pretty, With flowers so fair to see; I gather them, but no one Will take the flowers from me.
The good tree gives me shadow, And shelter from the rain; But yonder door is silent, It will not ope again!
I see the rainbow bending, Above her old abode, But she is there no longer; They've taken my love abroad.
They took her o'er the mountains. They took her o'er the sea; Move on, move on, my bonny sheep. There is no rest for me!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Spinner

THE SPINNER.
As I calmly sat and span, Toiling with all zeal, Lo! a young and handsome man Passed my spinning-wheel.
And he praised,—what harm was there? Sweet the things he said— Praised my flax-resembling hair, And the even thread.
He with this was not content. But must needs do more; And in twain the thread was rent, Though 'twas safe before.
​And the flax's stonelike weight Needed to be told; But no longer was its state Valued as of old.
When I took it to the weaver, Something felt I start, And more quickly, as with fever. Throbbed my trembling heart.
Then I bear the thread at length Through the heat, to bleach; But, alas, I scarce have strength To the pool to reach.
What I in my little room Span so fine and slight,— As was likely, I presume— Came at last to light.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Spring Oracle

THE SPRING ORACLE.
Oh, prophetic bird so bright, Blossom-songster, cuckoo hight! In the fairest time of year, Dearest bird, oh! deign to hear What a youthful pair would pray; Do thou call, if hope they may; Thy cuck-oo, thy cuck-oo, Ever more cuck-oo, cuck-oo!
Hearest thou? A loving pair Fain would to the altar fare; Yes! a pair in happy youth, Full of virtue, full of truth. Is the hour not fixed by fate? Say, how long must they still wait? Hark! cuck-oo! hark! cuck-oo! Silent yet! for shame, cuck-oo!
'Tis not our fault, certainly! Only two years patient be! But if we ourselves please here, Will pa-pa-papas appear? Know that thou'lt more kindness do us, More thou'lt prophesy unto us. One! cuck-oo! Two! cuck-oo! Ever, ever, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, coo!
If we've calculated clearly, We have half a dozen nearly. If good promises we'll give, Wilt thou say how long we'll live? Truly, we'll confess to thee, We'd prolong it willingly. ​Coo, cuck-oo, coo, cuck-oo! Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo!
Life is one continued feast— (If we keep no score, at least). If now we together dwell, Will true love remain as well? For if that should e'er decay, Happiness would pass away. Coo, cuck-oo, coo, cuck-oo, Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo!
(Gracefully in infinitum.)
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Teachers

THE TEACHERS.
What time Diogenes, unmoved and still, Lay in his tub, and basked him in the sun— What time Calanus clomb, with lightsome step And smiling cheek, up to his fiery tomb— ​What rare examples there for Philip's son To curb his overmastering lust of sway, But that the Lord of the majestic world Was all too great for lessons even like these!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Reckoning

THE RECKONING.
LEADER.
Let no cares now hover o'er us! Let the wine unsparing run! Wilt thou swell our merry chorus? Hast thou all thy duty done?
SOLO.
Two young folks—the thing is curious— Loved each other; yesterday Both quite mild, to-day quite furious, Next day, quite the deuce to pay! If her neck she there was stooping, He must here needs pull his hair, I revived their spirits drooping, And they're now a happy pair.
CHORUS.
Surely we for wine may languish! Let the bumper then go round! For all sighs and groans of anguish Thou to-day in joy hast drowned.
SOLO.
Why, young orphan, all this wailing? "Would to heaven that I were dead! For my guardian's craft prevailing Soon will make me beg my bread." Knowing well the rascal genus, Into court I dragged the knave; Fair the judges were between us, And the maiden's wealth did save.
CHORUS.
Surely we for wine may languish! Let the bumper then go round! For all sighs and groans of anguish Thou to-day in joy hast drowned.
SOLO.
To a little fellow, quiet, Unpretending and subdued. Has a big clown, running riot, Been to-day extremely rude. I bethought me of my duty, And my courage swelled apace, So I spoiled the rascal's beauty, Slashing him across the face.
CHORUS.
Surely we for wine may languish! Let the bumper then go round! For all sighs and groans of anguish Thou to-day in joy hast drowned.
SOLO.
Brief must be my explanation, For I really have done nought. ​Free from trouble and vexation, I a landlord's business bought. There I've done with all due ardour All that duty ordered me; Each one asked me for the larder, And there was no scarcity.
CHORUS.
Surely we for wine may languish! Let the bumper then go round! For all sighs and groans of anguish Thou to-day in joy hast drowned.
LEADER.
Each should thus make proclamation Of what he did well to-day! That's the match whose conflagration Should inflame our tuneful lay. Let it be our precept ever To admit no waverer here! For to act the good endeavour, None but rascals meek appear.
CHORUS.
Surely we for wine may languish! Let the bumper then go round! For all sighs and groans of anguish We have now in rapture drowned.
TRIO.
Let each merry minstrel enter, He's right welcome to our hall! 'Tis but with the self-tormentor That we are not liberal; ​For we fear that his caprices, That his eyebrows dark and sad, That his grief that never ceases Hide an empty heart, or bad.
CHORUS.
No one now for wine shall languish! Here no minstrel shall be found, Who all sighs and groans of anguish Has not first in rapture drowned!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Sea-Voyage

THE SEA-VOYAGE.
Many a day and night my bark stood ready laden; Waiting fav'ring winds, I sat with true friends round me, Pledging me to patience and to courage, In the haven.
And they spoke thus with impatience twofold: "Gladly pray we for thy rapid passage, Gladly for thy happy voyage; fortune In the distant world is waiting for thee, In our arms thou'lt find thy prize, and love, too, When returning."
And when morning came arose an uproar, And the sailors' joyous shouts awoke us; All was stirring, all was living, moving, Bent on sailing with the first kind zephyr.
​And the sails soon in the breezes are swelling, And the sun with fiery love invites us; Filled the sails are, clouds on high are floating, On the shore each friend exultant raises Songs of hope, in giddy joy expecting Joy the voyage through, as on the morn of sailing, And the earliest starry nights so radiant.
But by God-sent changing winds ere long he's driven Sideways from the course he had intended, And he feigns as though he would surrender, While he gently striveth to outwit them, To his goal, e'en when thus pressed, still faithful.
But from out the damp gray distance rising, Softly now the storm proclaims its advent, Presseth down each bird upon the waters, Presseth down the throbbing heart of mortals, And it cometh. At its stubborn fury, Wisely every sail the seaman striketh; With the anguish-laden ball are sporting Wind and water.
And on yonder shore are gathered standing, Friends and lovers, trembling for the bold one: "Why, alas, remained he here not with us! Ah, the tempest! Cast away by fortune! Must the good one perish in this fashion? Might not he perchance... Ye great immortals!"
Yet he, like a man, stands by his rudder; With the bark are sporting wind and water, Wind and water sport not with his bosom: On the fierce deep looks he, as a master,— In his gods, or shipwrecked, or safe landed, Trusting ever.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Stork's Vocation

THE STORK'S VOCATION.
The stork who worms and frogs devours That in our ponds reside, Why should he dwell on high church towers, With which he's not allied?
Incessantly he chatters there, And gives our ears no rest; But neither old nor young can dare To drive him from his nest.
I humbly ask it,—how can he Give of his title proof, Save by his happy tendency To sell the church's roof?
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Same, Expanded

The title refers to the previous poem in the collection, The Rule of Life.
THE SAME, EXPANDED.
If thou wouldst live unruffled by care, Let not the past torment thee e'er; If any loss thou hast to rue, Act as though thou wert born anew; Inquire the meaning of each day, What each day means, itself will say; In thine own actions take thy pleasure, What others do thou'lt duly treasure; Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied, And to God the future confide.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Rule of Life

THE RULE OF LIFE.
If thou wouldst live unruffled by care, Let not the past torment thee e'er; As little as possible be thou annoyed, And let the present be ever enjoyed; Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied, And to God the future confide.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Soldier's Consolation

THE SOLDIER'S CONSOLATION.
No! in truth there's here no lack: White the bread, the maidens black! To another town, next night, Black the bread, the maidens white!
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 6/Gulliver's Travels

Gulliver’s Travels
CONTENTS
OF THE
SIXTH VOLUME.
$^*$$_*$$^*$ Gulliver's Travels and the Tale of a Tub are indisputably the two most capital works of Swift. It is remarkable that he never would own himself to be the author of the latter; nor is the slightest hint of it to be found in any of his writings. I have very lately been authentically informed, that Swift used to be mortified at sir William Temple's frequent censure and contempt of burlesque writings; and was much hurt at the last paragraph of sir William's Essay upon Ancient and Modern Learning; where he says, "I wish the vein of ridiculing all that is serious and good, all honour and virtue, as well as learning and piety, may have no worse effect on any state; it is the itch of our age and climate; and has overrun both the court and the stage, enters a house of lords and commons, as boldly as a coffeehouse; debates of council as well as private conversation; and I have known in my life, more than one or two ministers of state, that would rather have said a witty thing, than have done a wise one; and made the company laugh, rather than the kingdom rejoice."
Warton.
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 the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 6/The Publisher to the Reader

THE
PUBLISHER
TO
THE READER.
THE author of these travels, Mr. Lemuel Gulliver, is my ancient and intimate friend; there is likewise some relation between us on the mother's side. About three years ago, Mr. Gulliver, growing weary of the concourse of curious people coming to him at his house in Redriff, made a small purchase of land with a convenient house near Newark, in Nottinghamshire, his native country; where he now lives retired, yet in good esteem among his neighbours.
Although Mr. Gulliver was born in Nottinghamshire, where his father dwelt, yet I have heard him say, his family came from Oxfordshire; to confirm which, I have observed in the church yard at Banbury in that county, several tombs and monuments of the Gullivers.
Before he quitted Redriff, he left the custody of the following papers in my hands, with the liberty to dispose of them as I should think fit. I have carefully perused them three times: The style is very plain and simple; and the only fault I find is, that the author, after the manner of travellers, is a little ​too circumstantial. There is an air of truth apparent through the whole; and indeed the author was so distinguished for his veracity, that it became a sort of proverb among his neighbours at Redriffe, when any one affirmed a thing, to say it was as true as if Mr. Gulliver had spoken it.
By the advice of several worthy persons, to whom with the author's permission I communicated these papers, I now venture to send them into the world, hoping they may be, at least for some time, a better entertainment to our young noblemen, than the common scribbles of politicks and party.
This volume would have been at least twice as large, if I had not made bold to strike out innumerable passages relating to the winds and tides, as well as to the variations and bearings in the several voyages, together with the minute descriptions of the management of the ship in storms in the style of sailors; likewise the account of longitudes and latitudes; wherein I have reason to apprehend, that Mr. Gulliver may be a little dissatisfied: but I was resolved to fit the work as much as possible to the general capacity of readers. However, if my own ignorance in sea affairs shall have led me to commit some mistakes, I alone am answerable for them: And if any traveller has a curiosity to see the whole work at large, as it came from the hands of the author, I will be ready to gratify him.
As for any farther particulars relating to the author, the reader will receive satisfaction from the first pages of the book.
RICHARD SYMPSON.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/A Ballad on the Game of Traffick

See the next poem, A Ballad to the Tune of the Cut-purse, for the explanation of the last stanza.
A BALLAD,
ON THE GAME OF TRAFFICK.
Written at the Castle of Dublin, 1699.
MY Lord, to find out who must deal, Delivers cards about, But the first knave does seldom fail To find the doctor out.
But then his honour cry'd, gadzooks! And seem'd to knit his brow; For on a knave he never looks But h' thinks upon Jack How.
My lady, though she is no player, Some bungling partner takes, And, wedg'd in corner of a chair, Takes snuff, and holds the stakes.
Dame Floyd looks out in grave suspense For pair-royals and sequents; But, wisely cautious of her pence, The castle seldom frequents.
Quoth Herries, fairly putting cases, I'd won it on my word, If I had but a pair of aces, And could pick up a third.
But Weston has a new-cast gown On Sundays to be fine in, And, if she can but win a crown, 'Twill just new dye the lining. ​"With these is parson Swift, Not knowing how to spend his time, Does make a wretched shift, To deafen them with puns and rhyme."
* ↑ The earl of Berkeley.
* ↑ Paymaster to the army.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/A Ballad to the Tune of the Cut-purse

See the previous poem, A Ballad on the Game of Traffick.
A BALLAD,
TO THE TUNE OF, THE CUT-PURSE.
Written in 1699.
I.
ONCE on a time, as old stories rehearse, A friar would need show his talent in Latin; But was sorely put to 't in the midst of a verse, Because he could find no word to come pat in: Then all in the place He left a void space, And so went to bed in a desperate case: When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle! He found it was strangely filled up in the middle.
Cho. Let censuring criticks then think what they list on 't; Who would not write verses with such an assistant?
II.
This put me the friar into an amazement: For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite; ​That he came through the keyhole, or in at the casement; And it needs must be one that could both read and write: Yet he did not know If it were friend or foe, Or whether it came from above or below: However, 'twas civil, in angel or elf, For he ne er could have fill'd it so well of himself.
Chor. Let censuring, &c.
III.
Even so master doctor had puzzled his brains In making a ballad, but was at a stand: He had mixt little wit with a great deal of pains, When he found a new help from invisible hand. Then, good doctor Swift, Pay thanks for the gift, For you freely must own, you were at a dead lift: And, though some malicious young spirit did do 't, You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot.
Cho. Let censuring, &c.