OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Satires, Epistles & Art of Poetry of Horace/Ep1-13

XIII. To Vinius Asella.
Ut proficiscentem.
S I have told you oft, deliver these, My sealed-up volumes, to Augustus, please, Friend Vinius, if he's well and in good trim, And (one proviso more) if asked by him:
Beware of over-zeal, nor discommend My works, by playing the impetuous friend. Suppose my budget, ere you get to town, Should gall you, better straightway throw it down Than, when you've reached the palace, fling the pack With animal impatience from your back, And so be thought in nature as in name Tour father's colt, and made some joker's game. Tour powers of tough endurance will avail With brooks and ponds to ford and hills to scale: But when you've quelled the perils of the road, Take special care how you adjust your load: Don't tuck beneath your arm these precious gifts, As drunken Pyrrhia does the wool she lifts, As rustics do a lamb, as humble wights Their cap and slippers when asked out at nights. Don't tell the world you've toiled and sweated hard In carrying lays which Caesar may regard: Push on, nor stop for questions. Now good bye; But pray don't trip, and smash the poetry.
# The Satires, Epistles & Art of Poetry of Horace/Ep1-14

XIV. To his Bailiff.
Villice silvarum.
OOD bailiff of my farm, that snug domain Which makes its master feel himself again, Which, though you sniff at it, could once support Five hearths, and send five statesmen to the court, Let's have a match in husbandry; we'll try Which can do weeding better, you or I, And see if Horace more repays the hand That clears him of his thistles, or his land. Though here I'm kept administering relief To my poor Lamia's broken-hearted grief For his lost brother, ne'ertheless my thought Flies to my woods, and counts the distance nought. You praise the townsman's, I the rustic's state: Admiring others' lots, our own we hate: Each blames the place he lives in: but the mind Is most in fault, which ne'er leaves self behind. A town-house drudge, for farms you used to sigh; Now towns and shows and baths are all your cry: But I'm consistent with myself: you know I grumble, when to Rome I'm forced to go. Truth is, our standards differ: what your taste Condemns, forsooth, as so much savage waste,
The man who thinks with Horace thinks divine, And hates the things which you believe so fine. I know your secret: 'tis the cook-shop breeds That lively sense of what the country needs: You grieve because this little nook of mine Would bear Arabian spice as soon as wine; Because no tavern happens to be nigh Where you can go and tipple on the sly, No saucy flute-girl, at whose jigging sound You bring your feet down lumbering to the ground. And yet, methinks, you've plenty on your hands In breaking up these long unharrowed lands; The ox, unyoked and resting from the plough, Wants fodder, stripped from elm or poplar bough; You've work too at the river, when there's rain, As, but for a strong bank,'twould flood the plain. Now have a little patience, you shall see What makes the gulf between yourself and me: I, who once wore gay clothes and well-dressed hair, I, who, though poor, could please a greedy fair, I, who could sit from mid-day o'er Falern, Now like short meals and slumbers by the burn: No shame I deem it to have had my sport; The shame had been in frolics not cut short. There at my farm I fear no evil eye; No pickthank blights my crops as he goes by; My honest neighbours laugh to see me wield A heavy rake, or dibble my own field. Were wishes wings, you'd join my slaves in town, And share the rations that they swallow down;
While that sharp footboy envies you the use Of what my garden, flocks, and woods produce. The horse would plough, the ox would draw the car. No; do the work you know, and tarry where you are.
# The Satires, Epistles & Art of Poetry of Horace/Ep1-10

X. To Aristius Fuscus.
Urbis amatorem.
O Fuscus, lover of the city, I Who love the country, wish prosperity: In this one thing unlike, in all beside We might be twins, so nearly we're allied; Sharing each other's hates, each other's loves, We bill and coo, like two familiar doves. You keep the nest: I love the rural scene,
Fresh runnels, moss-grown rocks, and woodland green. What would you more? once let me leave the things You praise so much, my life is like a king's: Like the priest's runaway, I cannot eat Your cakes, but pine for bread of wholesome wheat. Now say that it behoves us to adjust Our lives to nature (wisdom says we must): You want a site for building: can you find A place that's like the country to your mind? Where have you milder winters? where are airs That breathe more grateful when the Dogstar glares, Or when the Lion feels in every vein The sun's sharp thrill, and maddens with the pain? Is there a spot where care contrives to keep At further distance from the couch of sleep? Is springing grass less sweet to nose or eyes Than Libyan marble's tesselated dyes? Does purer water strain your pipes of lead Than that which ripples down the brooklet's bed? Why, 'mid your Parian columns trees you train, And praise the house that fronts a wide domain. Drive Nature forth by force, she'll turn and rout The false refinements that would keep her out. The luckless wight who can't tell side by side A Tyrian fleece from one Aquinum-dyed, Is not more surely, keenly, made to smart Than he who knows not truth and lies apart. Take too much pleasure in good things, you'll feel The shock of adverse fortune makes you reel.
Regard a thing with wonder, with a wrench You'll give it up when bidden to retrench. Keep clear of courts: a homely life transcends The vaunted bliss of monarchs and their friends. The stag was wont to quarrel with the steed, Nor let him graze in common on the mead: The steed, who got the worst in each attack, Asked help from man, and took him on his back: But when his foe was quelled, he ne'er got rid Of his new friend, still bridled and bestrid. So he who, fearing penury, loses hold Of independence, better far than gold, Will toil, a hopeless drudge, till life is spent, Because he'll never, never learn content. Means should, like shoes, be neither large nor small; Too wide, they trip us up, too strait, they gall. Then live contented, Fuscus, nor be slow To give a friendly rap to one you know, Whene'er you find me struggling to increase My neat sufficiency, and ne'er at peace. Gold will be slave or master: 'tis more fit That it be led by us than we by it. From tumble-down Vacuna's fane I write, Wanting but you to make me happy quite.
# The Satires, Epistles & Art of Poetry of Horace/Ep1-12

XII. To Iccitus.
Fructibus Agrippæ.
F, worthy Iccius, properly you use What you collect, Agrippa's revenues, You're well supplied: and Jove himself could tell No way to make you better off than well. A truce to murmuring: with another's store To use at pleasure, who shall call you poor? Sides, stomach, feet, if these are all in health, What more could man procure with princely wealth? If, with a well-spread table, when you dine, To plain green food your eating you confine, Though some fine day a rich Pactolian rill Should flood your house, you'd munch your pot-herbs still, From habit or conviction, which o'er-ride The power of gold, and league on virtue's side. No need to marvel at the stories told Of simple-sage Democritus of old, How, while his soul was soaring in the sky, The sheep got in and nibbled down his rye, When, spite of lucre's strong contagion, yet On lofty problems all your thoughts are set,— What checks the sea, what heats and cools the year,
If law or impulse guides the starry sphere, What power presides o'er lunar wanderings, What means the jarring harmony of things, Which after all is wise, and which the fool, Empedocles or the Stertinian school. But whether you're for taking fishes' life, Or against leeks and onions whet your knife, Let Grosphus be your friend, and should he plead For aught he wants, anticipate his need: He'll never outstep reason; and you know, When good men lack, the price of friends is low. But what of Rome? Agrippa has increased Her power in Spain, Tiberius in the East: Phraates, humbly bending on his knee, Submits himself to Cæsar's sovereignty: While golden Plenty from her teeming horn Pours down on Italy abundant corn.
# The Satires, Epistles & Art of Poetry of Horace/Ep1-15

XV. To C. Numonius Vala.
Quæ sit hiems Veliæ.
F Velia and Salernum tell me, pray, The climate, and the natives, and the way: For Baiæ now is lost on me, and I, Once its staunch friend, am turned its enemy, Through Musa's fault, who makes me undergo His cold-bath treatment, spite of frost and snow. Good sooth, the town is filled with spleen, to see Its myrtle-groves attract no company; To find its sulphur-wells, which forced out pain From joint and sinew, treated with disdain By tender chests and heads, now grown so bold, They brave cold water in the depth of cold, And, finding down at Clusium what they want, Or Gabii, say, make that their winter haunt. Yes, I must change my quarters; my good horse Must pass the inns where once he stopped of course.
"How now, you creature? I'm not bound to-day For Cumæ or for Baiæ," I shall say, Pulling the left rein angrily, because A horse when bridled listens through his jaws. Which place is best supplied with corn, d'ye think? Have they rain-water or fresh springs to drink? Their wines I care not for: when at my farm I can drink any sort without much harm; But at the sea I need a generous kind To warm my veins and pass into my mind, Enrich me with new hopes, choice words supply, And make me comely in a lady's eye. Which tract is best for game, on which sea-coast Urchins and other fish abound the most, That so, when I return, my friends may see A sleek Phæacian come to life in me: These things you needs must tell me, Vala dear, And I no less must act on what I hear. When Mænius, after nobly gobbling down His fortune, took to living on the town, A social beast of prey, with no fixed home, He ranged and ravened o'er the whole of Rome; His maw unfilled, he'd turn on friend and foe; None was too high for worrying, none too low; The scourge and murrain of each butcher's shop, Whate'er he got, he stuffed into his crop. So, when he'd failed in getting e'er a bit From those who liked or feared his wicked wit, Then down a throat of three-bear power he'd cram Plate after plate of offal, tripe or lamb,
And swear, as Bestius might, your gourmand knaves Should have their stomachs branded like a slave's. But give the brute a piece of daintier prey, When all was done, he'd smack his lips and say, "In faith I cannot wonder, when I hear Of folks who waste a fortune on good cheer, For there's no treat in nature more divine Than a fat thrush or a big paunch of swine." I'm just his double: when my purse is lean I hug myself, and praise the golden mean, Stout when not tempted; but suppose some day A special titbit comes into my way, I vow man's happiness is ne'er complete Till based on a substantial country seat.
# The Sermons of the Curé of Ars/The gift of every day

❧ THE GIFT OF EVERY DAY
Before beginning your work, my dear brethren, never fail to make the Sign of the Cross. Do not imitate those people without religion who dare not do this because they are in company. Offer quite simply all your difficulties to God and renew from time to time this offering, for by that means you will have the happiness of drawing down the blessing of Heaven on yourself and on all you do. Just think, my dear brethren, how many acts of virtue you can practice by behaving in this way, without making any change in what you are actually doing. If you work with the object of pleasing God and obeying His Commandments, which order you to earn your bread by the sweat of your brow, that is an act of obedience. If you want to expiate your sins, you are making an act of penance. If you want to obtain some grace for yourself or for others, it is an act of hope and of charity. Oh, how we could merit Heaven every day, my dear brethren, by doing just our ordinary duties, but by doing them for God and the salvation of our souls! Who stops you, when you hear the chimes striking, from thinking on the shortness of time and of saying in your minds: "Time passes and death comes closer. I am hastening towards eternity. Am I really ready to appear before the tribunal of God? Am I not in a state of sin?"
# The Sermons of the Curé of Ars/The public crosses

❧ THE PUBLIC CROSSES
I am going to talk to you now about the public crosses, and I am going to give you the reason for their number, for the blessings which flow from them, and for the great honour which the Church pays them. If our interior crosses are so numerous and if the public crosses, these images of that Cross on which our God died, are also so numerous, it is that we may have always present in our thoughts the reminder that we are the children of a crucified God. We need not be surprised, my dear brethren, at the honour which the Church pays to this holy wood, which obtains for us so many graces and so many benefits. We see that the Church makes the Sign of the Cross in all her ceremonies, in the administration of all the Sacraments. Why is that? My friends, this is why. It is because all our prayers and all the Sacraments draw from the Cross their power and their virtue. During the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, which is the greatest, the most solemn and the most sublime of all those actions which can glorify God, the priest makes the Sign of the Cross over and over again. God desires that we may never lose the memory of it as the surest means of our salvation and the most formidable instrument for repelling the Devil. He has created us in the form of a cross so that every man might be the image of this cross upon which Jesus Christ died to save us. See how eager the Church is to increase their number? She urges them as a special embellishment on our churches and on all altars; she places them in the most public places.
# The Sermons of the Curé of Ars/The service of the Blessed Virgin

❧ THE SERVICE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN
If I wanted to, I would show you that in all walks of life there have been great servants of the Blessed Virgin. I would find for you, among them, those who begged their bread from door to door. I would find for you, among them, those who lived in much the same sort of state in life as many of you. I would find them for you among the wealthy, and in great number, too. We read in the Gospel that our Lord always treated people with great tenderness, except for one type of people whom He treated with severity; these were the Pharisees, and they were so treated because they were proud and hardened in sin. They would willingly have hindered, if they could, the accomplishment of the will of the Father. What is more, our Lord called them "whited sepulchers, hypocrites, brood of vipers, offspring of vipers, who devour the breasts of their mothers." We can say the same thing on the subject of devotion to the Blessed Virgin. All Christians have a great devotion to Mary except those old and hardened sinners who, for a very long time, having lost the faith, wallow in the slime of their brute passions. The Devil tries to keep them in this state of blindness until that moment when death opens their eyes. Ah! If they had but the happiness to have recourse to Mary they would not fall into Hell, as will happen to them! No, my dear children, let us not imitate such people! On the contrary, let us follow the footsteps of all those true servants of Mary. Belonging to this number were St. Charles Borromeo, who always said his rosary on his knees. What is more, he fasted on all vigils of the feasts of the Blessed Virgin. He was so careful about saluting her on the stroke of the bell that when the Angelus rang, wherever he was, he went down on his knees, sometimes even in the middle of the road when it was full of mud. He desired that his whole diocese should have a great devotion to Mary and that her name would be uttered everywhere with the utmost respect. He had a number of chapels built in her honour. Now then, my dear brethren, why should not we imitate these great saints who obtained so many graces from Mary to preserve them from sin? Have we not the same enemies to fight, the same Heaven to hope for? Yes, Mary always has her eyes upon us. Do we suffer temptations? Let us turn our hearts towards Mary and we shall be delivered.
# The Sermons of the Curé of Ars/To their shame it must be said

❧ TO THEIR SHAME IT MUST BE SAID
You should never put your maidservants or your daughters to sleep in quarters to which the men will be going in the morning looking for food. This is something which, to the shame of fathers and mothers, must be said. These unfortunate children, or servants, are confused and embarrassed getting up and dressing in front of people who have no more religion than if they had never heard anyone speak of the one true God. Often, even, the beds for these unfortunate people have no curtains around them. But, you will say to me, if we had to do all the things you say, there would be an awful lot of work to do. My friend, it is work which you must do, and if you do not do it, you will be punished on account of it: see.... I know very well that you will do nothing, or practically nothing, in respect of what I have just been teaching you. But no matter. I will always continue to tell you what you ought to do. Then all the wrongdoing will be yours and not mine.... When God comes to judge you, you will not be able to say that you did not know what you should have done.... I shall remind you of what I am telling you today.
# The Sermons of the Curé of Ars/The tongue of the scandal-monger

❧ THE TONGUE OF THE SCANDAL-MONGER
Anyone who is unfortunate enough to come under the tongue of the scandalmonger is like a grain of corn under the grinding stone in a mill: he is torn, crushed, entirely destroyed. People like these will fasten onto you intentions that you never had; they will poison all your actions and your movements. If you have enough piety to wish to fulfil your religious duties, you are only a hypocrite, an angel in the church and a demon in the house. If you do any good or charitable works, they will think that this is just through pride and so that you may gain notice. If you are not worldly and not interested in worldly affairs, you are said to be odd and singular and to have no spirit. If you look after your own affairs carefully, you are nothing but a miser. Let me go further, my dear brethren, and say that the tongue of the scandalmonger is like the worm which gnaws at the good fruit -- that is, the best actions that people do -- and tries to turn all to bad account. The tongue of the scandalmonger is a grub which taints the most beautiful of the flowers and upon them leaves behind it the disgusting trace of is own slime.
# The Sermons of the Curé of Ars/The world is everything—God nothing!

❧ THE WORLD IS EVERYTHING—GOD NOTHING!
If people would do for god what they do for the world, my dear people, what a great number of Christians would go to Heaven! But if you, dear children, had to pass three or four hours praying in a church, as you pass them at a dance or in a cabaret, how heavily the time would press upon you! If you had to go to a great many different places in order to hear a sermon, as you go for your pastimes or to satisfy your avarice and greed, what pretexts there would be, and how many detours would be taken to avoid going at all. But nothing is too much trouble when done for the world. What is more, people are not afraid of losing either God or their souls or Heaven. With what good reason did Jesus Christ, my dear people, say that the children of this world are more zealous in serving their master, the world, than the children of light are in serving theirs, who is God. To our shame, we must admit that people fear neither expense, nor even going into debt, when it is a matter of satisfying their pleasures, but if some poor person asks them for help, they have nothing at all. This is true of so many: they have everything for the world and nothing at all for God because to them, the world is everything and God is nothing.
# The Other Man

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Other Man."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Other Man" (1901), a story by Sara Cone Bryant, in McClure's Magazine/Volume 17
* "The Other Man" (1886), a story by Rudyard Kipling
* The Other Man (?), a novel by Edgar Wallace
# The Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/My lute it has but one sweet song

MY LUTE IT HAS BUT ONE SWEET SONG,
Ballad Sung by Miss Love. Written, and Music composed, by J. Augustine Wade, Esq.-The idea of this Song is acknowledged, by its author, to have been derived from the Greek Poet Anacreon.
My lute it has but one sweet song, And that is love, dear love, No other sounds will e'er belong To its soft voice, but love. From morn's first ray To set of day, Where'er I chance to rove, Its chords will sigh No melody But love, dear love. ​Sometimes 'tis sad, Sometimes 'tis glad, As tears or smiles may prove; Sometimes it tells Of last farewells, But always still of love! To change its theme From passion's dream I would, but 'twill not rove, Nor cease to sigh The melody Of love, dear love.
Of knights and chivalry I tried To sing in lofty strain; My heroes were the young, the fair. My field, a bower or grove, My battle's noise, The low sweet voice Of love, dear love!
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 Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/My soldier love

MY SOLDIER LOVE.
Sund by Miss Stephens, Miss M. Tree, and Miss Povey. Music arranged by Bishop
Leeze me on my soldier love, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie! Brave as lion, kind as dove, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie! Should he fall in battle strife, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie! Nane beside shall call me wife, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie!
But if glorious from the wars, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie! Proud will I be of his scars, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie! By the sparkles of his e'e, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie! Nane, I ken, he lo'es but me, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie!
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 Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/Should he upbraid

SHOULD HE UPBRAID.
Music by Bishop. Sung by Miss Stephens, Miss M. Tree, and Miss Paton.
Should he upbraid, I'll own that he'd prevail, And sing as sweetly as the nightingale; Say that he frown, I'll say his looks I view As mornin roses newly tipped with dew; Say he be mute, I'll answer with a smile, And dance, and play, and wrinkled care beguile.
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 Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/Tell me, my heart

TELL ME, MY HEART.
Music by Bishop
Tell me, my heart, why morning prime Looks like the fading eve? Why the gay lark's celestial chime Shall tell the soul to grieve? The heaving bosom seems to say, Ah! hapless maid, your love's away,
Your love's away.
Tell me, my heart, why summer's glow A wintery day beguiles? Why Flora's beauties seem to blow, And fading Nature smiles? Some zephyr whispers in my ear, Ah! happy maid, your love is near Your love is near.
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