OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The fables of Aesop by William Caxton (Jacobs)/Vol. II/Poge/Fable 2

Click here to create an annotated version of this text.
¶ The second fable is of the woman and of the ypocryte
He generacion or byrth of the ypocryte is moche dampnable and euylle / As it appiereth by this fable / and as poge reherceth to vs whiche sayth / that somtyme he fond hym self in a good felauship / where he herd a fable / whiche was there reherced / Of the whiche the tenour foloweth / and seyth the sayd poge / that of alle the goodes of this world / the ypocrytes ben possessours / For how be hit / that an ypocryte haue somtyme wylle for to helpe somme poure and Indygent / Neuertheles he hath a condycyon within hym self / that is to wete / that he shold rather see a man at the poynt of dethe than for to saue his lyf of an halfpeny / And this presumpcion is called ypocrysye / as ye shal here herafter by the fable folowyng the whiche sayth that one beynge in the felauship of Poge reherced / that somtyme the customme of alle the poure was that they wente before the folkes dores withoute sayenge ony word It happed thenne on that tyme that a poure man ​moche faire and of good lyf wente to serche his lyf fro one dore to another / And vpon a day emonge other he wente and sette hym self vpon a grete stone before the yate of a wydowe / whiche wydowe was acustommed to gyue hym euer somwhat / ¶ And whan the good woman knewe that he was at hir dore she dyd brynge to hym his porcion as she was custommed for to doo / And as she gaf to hym the mete she loked on hym / and seyng hym soo fayre / and wel made of body / she thenne fylled of carnal concupiscence / and brennynge in the fyre of loue / requered and Instantly prayd hym that he wold retorne thyder within thre dayes / and promysed to him that she shold gyue to hym a ryght good dyner / And the poure man sayd to her that he shold doo soo / and whanne he came ageyne / he sette hym self as before / atte dore of the wydowes hows / whiche the woman knewe well whanne he shold come / wherfore she came to the yate and sayd / Come within good man / For now we shalle dyne / to the whiche prayer the poure man assented / & entred within the hows / the whiche wydowe gaf to hym good mete / and good drynke / And whanne they had wel dyned / the sayd wydowe pressyd the good man strongly and after she kyssed hym / requyrynge hym / that she might haue the copye of his loue / And thēne ​the poure man al ashamed & vergoynous knowynge her thoughte and her wylle / ansuerd thus to her Certaynly my good lady I dare not / but neuertheles he wold fayne haue done hit / And the wydowe al embraced with loue beseched and prayd hym more and more / And thenne whan the poure man sawe that he myght not excuse hym self / he sayd to the wydowe in this manere / My frend syth that thow desyrest it for to doo soo moche and soo grete an euylle / I take god to my wytnes / that thow arte causer of hit / For I am not consentynge to the faytte or dede / but sayenge these wordes he consented to her wylle
# The fables of Aesop by William Caxton (Jacobs)/Vol. II/Poge/Fable 3

Click here to create an annotated version of this text.
¶ The thyrd fable is of a yonge woman whiche accused her husbond of coulpe or blame
[Omitted. Cf. Poggio Facetiæ 45.]
# The fairy tales of science/Preface

PREFACE.
To place before the youthful student a compact and concise compendium of the leading and most universally important branches of Science has been my principal object in the preparation of this little volume.
To adapt the work to the capacity of all, I have endeavoured to divest the different subjects treated in it of hard and dry technicalities, and to clothe them in the more attractive garb of fairy tales—a task by no means easy.
That I have been obliged, in the composition of the work, to consult a crowd of authorities, need hardly be stated, nor will any more formal enumeration or systematic acknowledgment be expected.
In the fanciful sketches which illustrate these pages, my friend Mr. C. H. Bennett has most fully entered into the spirit in which I conceived the work.
I have to tender my sincere thanks to my ​esteemed friend Dr. G. L. Strauss, who came to my aid, at a time when severe indisposition seemed to threaten that many of these Fairy Tales of Science should remain untold.
J. C. B.
Stockwell, 1858
# The true spouse of Jesus Christ

The Centenary Edition.
The True Spouse of Jesus Christ.
THE FIRST SIXTEEN CHAPTERS
BY St. ALPHONSUS de LIGUORI, Doctor of the Church.
EDITED BY REV. EUGENE GRIMM, Priest of the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer.
Volume I.
NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, AND ST. LOUIS: BENZIGER BROTHERS, Printers to the Holy Apostolic See.
| R. WASHBOURNE, 18 Paternoster Row, London. | M. H. GILL & SON, 50 Upper O'Connell Street, Dublin. |
1888.
page
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 town down the river; a book of poems/Vickery's Mountain

VICKERY'S MOUNTAIN
Blue in the west the mountain stands, And through the long twilight Vickery sits with folded hands, And Vickery's eyes are bright.
Bright, for he knows what no man else On earth as yet may know: There's a golden word that he never tells, And a gift that he will not show.
He dreams of honor and wealth and fame, He smiles, and well he may; For to Vickery once a sick man came Who did not go away.
The day before the day to be, "Vickery," said the guest, "You know as you live what's left of me— And you shall know the rest.
"You know as you live that I have come To what we call the end. No doubt you have found me troublesome, But you've also found a friend;
"For we shall give and you shall take The gold that is in view; The mountain there and I shall make A golden man of you.
"And you shall leave a friend behind Who neither frets nor feels; And you shall move among your kind With hundreds at your heels.
"Now this that I have written here Tells all that need be told; So, Vickery, take the way that's clear, And be a man of gold."
Vickery turned his eyes again To the far mountain-side, And wept a tear for worthy men Defeated and defied.
Since then a crafty score of years Have come, and they have gone; But Vickery counts no lost arrears: He lingers and lives on.
Blue in the west the mountain stands, Familiar as a face. Blue, but Vickery knows what sands Are golden at its base.
He dreams and lives upon the day When he shall walk with kings. Vickery smiles—and well he may: The life-caged linnet sings.
Vickery thinks the time will come To go for what is his; But hovering, unseen hands at home Will hold him where he is.
There's a golden word that he never tells And a gift that he will not show. All to be given to some one else— And Vickery shall not know.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Modern Amadis

THE MODERN AMADIS.
They kept me guarded close, while yet A little tiny elf, And so I sat, and did beget A world within myself, All I cared to see.
Golden fancy then unfurled Endless sights to me. And a gallant knight I grew; Like the Prince Pipi, Roamed throughout the world.
Many a crystal palace saw, Many overthrew; My far-flashing falchion hurled Through the dragon's maw. Ha! then I was a man!
Next I freed in knightly wise The Princess Periban; Oh, the wonder of her eyes, Smiling, as I wooed Her with hearted sighs!
Her kiss, it was ambrosial food, Glowed like noble wine; With love, oh, I was almost dead! A golden haze divine She around her shed.
Who has torn her from my sight? Can no spell delay That dear vision, stay her flight? Where her home, oh, say? And thither, which the way?
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Magic Net

THE MAGIC NET.
Do I see a contest yonder? See I miracles or pastimes? Beauteous urchins, five in number, 'Gainst five sisters fair contending,— Measured is the time they're beating— At a bright enchantress' bidding. Glittering spears by some are wielded, Threads are others nimbly twining, So that in their snares, the weapons, One would think, must needs be captured. Soon, in truth, the spears are prisoned: Yet they, in the gentle war-dance, One by one escape their fetters In the row of loops so tender, That make haste to seize a free one Soon as they release a captive. ​So with contests, strivings, triumphs, Flying now, and now returning, Is an artful net soon woven, In its whiteness like the snowflakes, That, from light amid the darkness, Draw their streaky lines so varied, As e'en colours scarce can draw them.
Who shall now receive that garment Far beyond all others wished-for? Whom our much-loved mistress favour As her own acknowledged servant? I am blest by kindly Fortune's Tokens true, in silence prayed for! And I feel myself held captive, To her service now devoted.
Yet, e'en while I, thus enraptured, Thus adorned, am proudly wandering, See! yon wantons are entwining. Void of strife with secret ardour, Other nets, each fine and finer, Threads of twilight interweaving. Moonbeams sweet, night-violets' balsam.
Ere the net is noticed by us, Is a happier one imprisoned, Whom we, one and all, together Greet with envy and with blessings.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Maid of the Mill's Treachery

THE MAID OF THE MILL'S TREACHERY.
[This ballad is introduced in the "Wanderjahre," in a tale called "The Foolish Pilgrim."]
Whence comes our friend so hastily, When scarce the eastern sky is gray? Hath he just ceased, though cold it be, In yonder holy spot to pray? The brook appears to hem his path, Would he barefooted o'er it go? Why curse his orisons in wrath, Across those heights beclad with snow?
Alas! his warm bed he hath left, Where he had looked for bliss, I ween; And if his cloak, too, had been reft, How fearful his disgrace had been! By yonder villain sorely pressed, His wallet from him had been torn; Our hapless friend has been undressed,— Left well-nigh naked as when born.
The reason why he came this road. Is that he sought a pair of eyes, Which, at the mill, as brightly glowed As those that are in Paradise. He will not soon again be there. From out the house he quickly hied, And when he gained the open air, Thus bitterly and loudly cried:
"Within her gaze, so dazzling bright, No word of teachery I could read; She seemed to see me with delight, Yet planned e'en then this cruel deed. ​Could I, when basking in her smile. Dream of the treason in her breast? She bade kind Cupid stay awhile, And he was there to make us blest.
"To taste of love's sweet ecstasy Throughout the night that endless seemed, And for her mother's help to cry Only when morning sunlight beamed! A dozen of her kith and kin, A very human flood, in-pressed, Her cousins came, her aunts peered in, And uncles, brothers, and the rest.
"Then what a tumult, fierce and loud! Each seemed a beast of prey to be; The maiden's honour all the crowd, With fearful shout, demand of me. Why should they, madmen-like, begin To fall upon a guiltless youth? For he who such a prize would win, Far nimbler needs must be, in truth.
"The way to follow up with skill His freaks, by Love betimes is known He ne'er will leave, within a mill, Sweet flowers for sixteen years alone.— They stole my clothes away,—yes, all! And tried my cloak beside to steal. How strange that any house so small So many rascals could conceal!
"Then I sprang up, and raved, and swore, To force a passage through them there. I saw the treacherous maid once more, And she was still, alas, so fair! ​They all gave way before my wrath, Wild outcries flew about pell-mell; At length I managed to rush forth, With voice of thunder, from that hell.
"As maidens of the town we fly, We'll shun you maidens of the village! Leave it to those of quality, Their humble worshippers to pillage! Yet if ye are of practised skill, And of all tender ties afraid, Exchange your lovers, if ye will. But never let them be betrayed."
Thus sings he in the winter night, While not a blade of grass was green. I laughed to see his piteous plight, For it was well deserved, I ween. And may this be the fate of all, Who treat by day their true loves ill, And, with foolhardy daring, crawl By night to Cupid's treacherous mill!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Maiden Speaks

THE MAIDEN SPEAKS.
How grave thou lookest, loved one! wherefore so? Thy marble image seems a type of thee; Like it, no sign of life thou givest me; Compared with thee, the stone appears to glow.
Behind his shield in ambush lurks the foe, The friend's brow all unruffled we should see. I seek thee, but thou seekest away to flee; Fixed as this sculptured figure, learn to grow!
Tell me, to which should I the preference pay? Must I from both with coldness meet alone? The one is lifeless, thou with life art blest. In short, no longer to throw words away, I'll fondly kiss and kiss and kiss this stone, Till thou dost tear me hence with envious breast.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Minstrel

THE MINSTREL.
[This fine poem is introduced in the second book of "Wilhelm Meister."]
"What tuneful strains salute mine ear Without the castle walls? Oh, let the song reëcho here, Within our festal halls!" ​Thus spake the king, the page out-hied; The boy returned; the monarch cried: "Admit the old man yonder!"
"All hail, ye noble lords to-night! All hail, ye beauteous dames! Star placed by star! What heavenly sight! Who e'er can tell their names? Within this glittering hall sublime, Be closed mine eyes! 'tis not the time For me to feast my wonder."
The minstrel straightway closed his eyes, And woke a thrilling tone; The knights looked on in knightly guise, Fair looks toward earth were thrown. The monarch, ravished by the strain, Bade them bring forth a golden chain, To be his numbers' guerdon.
"The golden chain give not to me, But give the chain to those In whose bold face we shivered see The lances of our foes. Or give it to thy chancellor there; With other burdens he may bear This one more golden burden.
"I sing, like birds of blithesome note, That in the branches dwell; The song that rises from the throat Repays the minstrel well. One boon I'd crave, if not too bold— One bumper in a cup of gold Be as my guerdon given."
​The bowl he raised, the bowl he quaffed: "Oh, drink, with solace fraught! O house thrice-blest, where such a draught A trifling gift is thought! When Fortune smiles, remember me, And as I thank you heartily, As warmly thank ye, Heaven!"
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Mountain Village

Consistent with the original work, this page contains an additional untitled couplet.
THE MOUNTAIN VILLAGE.
"The mountain village was destroyed; But see how soon is filled the void! Shingles and boards, as by magic arise, The babe in his cradle and swaddling-clothes lies; How blest to trust to God's protection!" Behold a wooden new erection, So that, if sparks and wind but choose, God's self at such a game must lose!
In the world do things go with you ill, You can't do right, do what you will.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Musagetes

THE MUSAGETES.
Often in the winter midnight, Prayed I to the blessed Muses— "Here is not the red of morning. Tardy is the day in breaking; Light for me, ye blessed Muses, Light the lamp of inspiration. That its mellow ray may serve me, 'Stead of Phoebus and Aurora!" But they left me to my slumber, Dull, and spiritless, and torpid; And the morning's lazy leisure Ushered in a useless day.
Then when spring began to kindle, Thus the nightingales I conjured — "Sweetest nightingales, oh, warble, Warble early at my window! Wake me from the heavy slumber That in magic fetters holds me!" And the love-o'erflowing singers Sang all night around my window All their rarest melodies; Kept awake the soul within me; ​Gave me trances, aspirations, Glimpses of divine emotion, Soothing, melting, undefined. So the night passed lightly over, And Aurora found me sleeping, Scarce I wakened with the sun.
Lastly, came the glorious summer; What aroused me then from dreaming, At the earliest dawn of morning? 'Twas the buzzing of the flies! They are touched by no compassion; Euthlessly they do their duty, Though the half-awakened sleeper Greets them with a malediction. Unabashed their clan they summon, And the humming swarm is vocal, And they banish from my eyelids All the luxury of sleep.
Straightway start I from my pillow, Leave the close-beleaguered chamber, Sally out to seek the Muses, In the haunts to them are dearest. And I find them 'neath the beeches, Waiting for me, sometimes chiding, For my over-long delay. Thus I owe you, libelled insects. Thanks for many hours of rapture. Dullards may indeed abuse you, Since you wake them to sensation; But the poet ought to prize you, And I thank you, as a poet, Ranking you, beyond all others, As the ushers to the Muse.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Maid of the Mill's Repentance

THE MAID OF THE MILL'S REPENTANCE.
YOUTH.
Away, thou swarthy witch! Go forth From out my house, I tell thee! Or else I needs must, in my wrath, Expel thee! What's this thou singest so falsely, forsooth, Of love and a maiden's silent truth? Who'll trust to such a story!
GYPSY.
I sing of a maid's repented fears, And long and bitter yearning; Her levity changed to truth and tears All-burning. She dreads no more the threats of her mother, She dreads far less the blows of her brother, Than the dearly-loved one's hatred.
YOUTH.
Of selfishness sing, and treacherous lies, Of murder and thievish plunder! Such actions false will cause no surprise, Or wonder. When they share their booty, both clothes and purse,— As bad as you gypsies, and even worse, Such tales find ready credence.
GYPSY.
"Alas, alas! oh, what have I done? Can listening aught avail me? I hear him toward my room hasten on, To hail me. My heart beat high, to myself I said: "O would that thou hadst never betrayed That night of love to thy mother!'"
YOUTH.
Alas! I foolishly ventured there. For the cheating silence misled me, Ah, sweetest! let me to thee repair,— Nor dread me! When suddenly rose a fearful din, Her mad relations came pouring in. My blood still boils in my body!
GYPSY.
"Oh when will return an hour like this? I pine in silent sadness; I've thrown away my only true bliss With madness. Alas, poor maid! Oh pity my youth! My brother was then full cruel in truth To treat the loved one so basely!"
THE POET.
The swarthy woman then went inside, To the spring in the courtyard yonder; Her eyes from their stain she purified, And,—wonder! — Her face and eyes were radiant and bright, And the maid of the mill was disclosed to the sight Of the startled and angry stripling.
THE MAID OF THE MILL.
Thou sweetest, fairest, dearly-loved life! Before thine anger I cower; But blows I dread not, nor sharp-edged knife,— This hour Of sorrow and love to thee I'll sing, And myself before thy feet I'll fling, And either live or die there!
YOUTH.
Affection, say, why buried so deep In my heart hast thou lain hidden? By whom hast thou now to awake from thy sleep Been bidden? Ah, love, that thou art immortal I see! Nor knavish cunning nor treachery Can destroy thy life so godlike.
THE MAID OF THE MILL.
If still, with as fond and heartfelt love, As thou once didst swear, I'm cherished, Then nought of the rapture we used to prove Is perished. So take the woman so dear to thy breast! In her young and innocent charms be blest, For all are thine from henceforward!
BOTH.
Now, sun, sink to rest! Now, moon, arise! Ye stars, be now shining, now darkling! A star of love now gleams in the skies, All sparkling! As long as the fountain may spring and run, So long will we two be blended in one, Upon each other's bosoms!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Misanthrope

Consistent with the original work, this page contains an additional untitled couplet.
THE MISANTHROPE.
At first awhile sits he, With calm, unruffled brow; His features then I see, Distorted hideously,— ​An owl's they might be now. What is it, asketh thou? Is't love, or is't ennui? 'Tis both at once, I vow.
Late resounds the early strain; Weal and woe in song remain.
# The town down the river; a book of poems/Au Revoir

AU REVOIR
(MARCH 23, 1909.)
What libellers of destiny Are these who are afraid That something yet without a name Will seize him in the shade?
Though fever-demons may compound Their most malefic brew, No fever can defeat the man Who still has work to do;
Though mighty lions walk about, Inimical to see, No lion yet was ever fed On things that are to be.
Wherefore, and of necessity, Will he meet what may come; And from a nation will be missed As others are from home.
# The town down the river; a book of poems/Bon Voyage

BON VOYAGE
Child of a line accurst And old as Troy, Bringer of best and worst In wild alloy— Light, like a linnet first, He sang for joy.
Thrall to the gilded ease Of every day, Mocker of all degrees And always gay, Child of the Cyclades And of Broadway—
Laughing and half divine The boy began, Drunk with a woodland wine Thessalian: But there was rue to twine The pipes of Pan.
Therefore he skipped and flew The more along, Vivid and always new And always wrong, Knowing his only clew A siren song.
Careless of each and all He gave and spent: Feast or a funeral He laughed and went, Laughing to be so small In the event.
Told of his own deceit By many a tongue, Flayed for his long defeat By being young, Lured by the fateful sweet Of songs unsung—
Knowing it in his heart, But knowing not The secret of an art That few forgot, He played the twinkling part That was his lot.
And when the twinkle died, As twinkles do, He pushed himself aside And out of view: Out with the wind and tide, Before we knew.
# The town down the river; a book of poems

THE TOWN DOWN THE RIVER
A BOOK OF POEMS
BY
EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1920
Copyright, 1910, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published September, 1910
TO
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
CONTENTS
page
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1935, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 88 years or less. 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.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The town down the river; a book of poems/Alma Mater

ALMA MATER
He knocked, and I beheld him at the door— A vision for the gods to verify. "What battered ancientry is this," thought I, And when, if ever, did we meet before?" But ask him as I might, I got no more For answer than a moaning and a cry: Too late to parley, but in time to die, He staggered, and lay shapeless on the floor.
When had I known him? And what brought him here? Love, warning, malediction, hunger, fear? Surely I never thwarted such as he?— Again, what soiled obscurity was this: Out of what scum, and up from what abyss, Had they arrived—these rags of memory?