Longest Thread on MC-Market
- Thread starter Landon
- Start date
A Long Story
In Britain’s Isle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of buildings stands:
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ’d the power of Fairy hands
To raise the ceiling’s fretted height,
Each pannel in achievements cloathing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,
And passages, that lead to nothing.
Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o’er him,
My grave Lord-Keeper1 led the Brawls;
The Seal, and Maces, danc’d before him.
His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown’d hat, and satin-doublet,
Mov’d the stout heart of England’s Queen,
Tho’ Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.
What, in the very first beginning!
Shame of the versifying tribe!
Your Hist’ry whither are you spinning?
Can you do nothing but describe?
A House there is, (and that’s enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of Warriors, not in buff,
But rustling in their silks and tissues.
The first came cap-a-pee from France
Her conqu’ring destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.
The other Amazon kind heaven
Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire:
But COBHAM had the polish given
And tip’d her arrows with good-nature.
To celebrate her eyes, her air -
Coarse panegyricks would but teaze her.
Melissa is her Nom de Guerre.
Alas, who would not wish to please her!
With bonnet blue and capucine,
And aprons long they hid their armour,
And veil’d their weapons bright and keen
In pity to the country-farmer.
Fame, in the shape of Mr. Purt,
(By this time all the parish know it)
Had told, that thereabouts there lurk’d
A wicked Imp they call a Poet,
Who prowl’d the country far and near,
Bewitch’d the children of the peasants,
Dried up the cows, and lam’d the deer,
And suck’d the eggs and kill’d the pheasants.
My Lady heard their joint petition,
Swore by her coronet and ermine,
She’d issue out her high commission
To rid the manour of such vermin.
The Heroines undertook the task,
Thro’ lanes unknown, o’er stiles they ventur’d,
Rap’d at the door nor stay’d to ask,
But bounce into the parlour enter’d.
The trembling family they daunt,
They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle,
Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt,
And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle.
Each hole and cupboard they explore,
Each creek and cranny of his chamber,
Run hurry-skurry round the floor,
And o’er the bed and tester clamber,
Into the Drawers and China pry,
Papers and books, a huge Imbroglio!
Under a tea-cup he might lie,
Or creased, like dogs-ears, in a folio.
On the first marching of the troops
The Muses, hopeless of his pardon,
Convey’d him underneath their hoops
To a small closet in the garden.
So Rumour says. (Who will, believe.)
But that they left the door a-jarr,
Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve,
He heard the distant din of war.
Short was his joy. He little knew
The power of Magick was no fable.
Out of the window, whisk, they flew,
But left a spell upon the table.
The words too eager to unriddle,
The poet felt a strange disorder:
Transparent birdlime form’d the middle,
And chains invisible the border.
So cunning was the Apparatus,
The powerful pothooks did so move him,
That, will he, nill he, to the Great-house
He went, as if the Devil drove him.
Yet on his way (no sign of grace,
For folks in fear are apt to pray)
To Phoebus he prefer’d his case,
And begged his aid that dreadful day.
The Godhead would have back’d his quarrel,
But, with a blush on recollection,
Own’d that his quiver and his laurel
’Gainst four such eyes were no protection.
The Court was sate, the Culprit there,
Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping
The Lady Janes and Joans repair,
And from the gallery stand peeping:
Such as in silence of the night
Come (sweep) along some winding entry
(Styack2 has often seen the sight)
Or at the chappel-door stand sentry;
In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish’d,
Sour visages, enough to scare ye,
High dames of honour once, that garnish’d
The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary.
The Peeress comes. The Audience stare,
And doff their hats with due submission:
She curtsies, as she takes her chair,
To all the people of condition.
The bard with many an artful fib,
Had in imagination fenc’d him,
Disproved the arguments of Squib,3
And all that Groom4 could urge against him.
But soon his rhetorick forsook him,
When he the solemn hall had seen;
A sudden fit of ague shook him,
He stood as mute as poor Macleane.5
Yet something he was heard to mutter,
‘‘How in the park beneath an old-tree
(Without design to hurt the butter,
Or any malice to the poultry,)
‘‘He once or twice had pen’d a sonnet;
Yet hop’d that he might save his bacon:
Numbers would give their oaths upon it,
He ne’er was for a conj’rer taken.’’
The ghostly Prudes with hagged face
Already had condemn’d the sinner.
My Lady rose, and with a grace -
She smiled, and bid him come to dinner.
‘‘Jesu-Maria! Madam Bridget,
Why, what can the Viscountess mean?’’
(Cried the square Hoods in woeful fidget)
‘‘The times are altered quite and clean!
‘‘Decorum’s turned to mere civility;
Her air and all her manners show it.
Commend me to her affability!
Speak to a Commoner and Poet!’’
[Here 500 Stanzas are lost.]
And so God save our noble King,
And guard us from long-winded Lubbers,
That to eternity would sing,
And keep my Lady from her Rubbers.
In Britain’s Isle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of buildings stands:
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ’d the power of Fairy hands
To raise the ceiling’s fretted height,
Each pannel in achievements cloathing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,
And passages, that lead to nothing.
Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o’er him,
My grave Lord-Keeper1 led the Brawls;
The Seal, and Maces, danc’d before him.
His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown’d hat, and satin-doublet,
Mov’d the stout heart of England’s Queen,
Tho’ Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.
What, in the very first beginning!
Shame of the versifying tribe!
Your Hist’ry whither are you spinning?
Can you do nothing but describe?
A House there is, (and that’s enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of Warriors, not in buff,
But rustling in their silks and tissues.
The first came cap-a-pee from France
Her conqu’ring destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.
The other Amazon kind heaven
Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire:
But COBHAM had the polish given
And tip’d her arrows with good-nature.
To celebrate her eyes, her air -
Coarse panegyricks would but teaze her.
Melissa is her Nom de Guerre.
Alas, who would not wish to please her!
With bonnet blue and capucine,
And aprons long they hid their armour,
And veil’d their weapons bright and keen
In pity to the country-farmer.
Fame, in the shape of Mr. Purt,
(By this time all the parish know it)
Had told, that thereabouts there lurk’d
A wicked Imp they call a Poet,
Who prowl’d the country far and near,
Bewitch’d the children of the peasants,
Dried up the cows, and lam’d the deer,
And suck’d the eggs and kill’d the pheasants.
My Lady heard their joint petition,
Swore by her coronet and ermine,
She’d issue out her high commission
To rid the manour of such vermin.
The Heroines undertook the task,
Thro’ lanes unknown, o’er stiles they ventur’d,
Rap’d at the door nor stay’d to ask,
But bounce into the parlour enter’d.
The trembling family they daunt,
They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle,
Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt,
And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle.
Each hole and cupboard they explore,
Each creek and cranny of his chamber,
Run hurry-skurry round the floor,
And o’er the bed and tester clamber,
Into the Drawers and China pry,
Papers and books, a huge Imbroglio!
Under a tea-cup he might lie,
Or creased, like dogs-ears, in a folio.
On the first marching of the troops
The Muses, hopeless of his pardon,
Convey’d him underneath their hoops
To a small closet in the garden.
So Rumour says. (Who will, believe.)
But that they left the door a-jarr,
Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve,
He heard the distant din of war.
Short was his joy. He little knew
The power of Magick was no fable.
Out of the window, whisk, they flew,
But left a spell upon the table.
The words too eager to unriddle,
The poet felt a strange disorder:
Transparent birdlime form’d the middle,
And chains invisible the border.
So cunning was the Apparatus,
The powerful pothooks did so move him,
That, will he, nill he, to the Great-house
He went, as if the Devil drove him.
Yet on his way (no sign of grace,
For folks in fear are apt to pray)
To Phoebus he prefer’d his case,
And begged his aid that dreadful day.
The Godhead would have back’d his quarrel,
But, with a blush on recollection,
Own’d that his quiver and his laurel
’Gainst four such eyes were no protection.
The Court was sate, the Culprit there,
Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping
The Lady Janes and Joans repair,
And from the gallery stand peeping:
Such as in silence of the night
Come (sweep) along some winding entry
(Styack2 has often seen the sight)
Or at the chappel-door stand sentry;
In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish’d,
Sour visages, enough to scare ye,
High dames of honour once, that garnish’d
The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary.
The Peeress comes. The Audience stare,
And doff their hats with due submission:
She curtsies, as she takes her chair,
To all the people of condition.
The bard with many an artful fib,
Had in imagination fenc’d him,
Disproved the arguments of Squib,3
And all that Groom4 could urge against him.
But soon his rhetorick forsook him,
When he the solemn hall had seen;
A sudden fit of ague shook him,
He stood as mute as poor Macleane.5
Yet something he was heard to mutter,
‘‘How in the park beneath an old-tree
(Without design to hurt the butter,
Or any malice to the poultry,)
‘‘He once or twice had pen’d a sonnet;
Yet hop’d that he might save his bacon:
Numbers would give their oaths upon it,
He ne’er was for a conj’rer taken.’’
The ghostly Prudes with hagged face
Already had condemn’d the sinner.
My Lady rose, and with a grace -
She smiled, and bid him come to dinner.
‘‘Jesu-Maria! Madam Bridget,
Why, what can the Viscountess mean?’’
(Cried the square Hoods in woeful fidget)
‘‘The times are altered quite and clean!
‘‘Decorum’s turned to mere civility;
Her air and all her manners show it.
Commend me to her affability!
Speak to a Commoner and Poet!’’
[Here 500 Stanzas are lost.]
And so God save our noble King,
And guard us from long-winded Lubbers,
That to eternity would sing,
And keep my Lady from her Rubbers.
Source: Read.gov (Possibly Library Of Congress)
The Town Mouse & the Country Mouse
A Town Mouse once visited a relative who lived in the country. For lunch the Country Mouse served wheat stalks, roots, and acorns, with a dash of cold water for drink. The Town Mouse ate very sparingly, nibbling a little of this and a little of that, and by her manner making it very plain that she ate the simple food only to be polite. After the meal the friends had a long talk, or rather the Town Mouse talked about her life in the city while the Country Mouse listened. They then went to bed in a cozy nest in the hedgerow and slept in quiet and comfort until morning. In her sleep the Country Mouse dreamed she was a Town Mouse with all the luxuries and delights of city life that her friend had described for her. So the next day when the Town Mouse asked the Country Mouse to go home with her to the city, she gladly said yes. When they reached the mansion in which the Town Mouse lived, they found on the table in the dining room the leavings of a very fine banquet. There were sweetmeats and jellies, pastries, delicious cheeses, indeed, the most tempting foods that a Mouse can imagine. But just as the Country Mouse was about to nibble a dainty bit of pastry, she heard a Cat mew loudly and scratch at the door. In great fear the Mice scurried to a hiding place, where they lay quite still for a long time, hardly daring to breathe. When at last they ventured back to the feast, the door opened suddenly and in came the servants to clear the table, followed by the House Dog. The Country Mouse stopped in the Town Mouse's den only long enough to pick up her carpet bag and umbrella. "You may have luxuries and dainties that I have not," she said as she hurried away, "but I prefer my plain food and simple life in the country with the peace and security that go with it." Poverty with security is better than plenty in the midst of fear and uncertainty.
The Town Mouse & the Country Mouse
A Town Mouse once visited a relative who lived in the country. For lunch the Country Mouse served wheat stalks, roots, and acorns, with a dash of cold water for drink. The Town Mouse ate very sparingly, nibbling a little of this and a little of that, and by her manner making it very plain that she ate the simple food only to be polite. After the meal the friends had a long talk, or rather the Town Mouse talked about her life in the city while the Country Mouse listened. They then went to bed in a cozy nest in the hedgerow and slept in quiet and comfort until morning. In her sleep the Country Mouse dreamed she was a Town Mouse with all the luxuries and delights of city life that her friend had described for her. So the next day when the Town Mouse asked the Country Mouse to go home with her to the city, she gladly said yes. When they reached the mansion in which the Town Mouse lived, they found on the table in the dining room the leavings of a very fine banquet. There were sweetmeats and jellies, pastries, delicious cheeses, indeed, the most tempting foods that a Mouse can imagine. But just as the Country Mouse was about to nibble a dainty bit of pastry, she heard a Cat mew loudly and scratch at the door. In great fear the Mice scurried to a hiding place, where they lay quite still for a long time, hardly daring to breathe. When at last they ventured back to the feast, the door opened suddenly and in came the servants to clear the table, followed by the House Dog. The Country Mouse stopped in the Town Mouse's den only long enough to pick up her carpet bag and umbrella. "You may have luxuries and dainties that I have not," she said as she hurried away, "but I prefer my plain food and simple life in the country with the peace and security that go with it." Poverty with security is better than plenty in the midst of fear and uncertainty.
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Are you a doomer or a boomer
I'm just saying that you got destroyed by the "Change 1 letter" post.
