By jove, no wonder women don't love war nor understand it, nor can operate in it as a rule; it takes a man to suffer what other men have invented.
By jove, no wonder women don't love war nor understand it, nor can operate in it as a rule; it takes a man to suffer what other men have invented.
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.
Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought.
Jove, thou regent of the skies.
Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming,
In thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove,
That if requiring fail, he will compel;
And bids you, in the bowels of the Lord,
Deliver up the crown; and to take mercy
On the poor souls for whom this hungry war
Opens his vasty jaws; and on your head
Turning the widows' tears, the orphans' cries,
The dead men's blood, the privy maidens' groans,
For husbands, fathers, and betrothed lovers,
That shall be swallowed in this controversy.
Man, at least when educated, is a pessimist. He believes it safer not to reflect on his achievements Jove is known to strike such people down.
When the Irishman is found outside of Ireland in another environment, he very often becomes a respected man. The economic and intellectual conditions that prevail in his own country do not permit the development of individuality. No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove.
Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour The bad affright, afflict the best.
The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.
To labour is the lot of man below And when Jove gave us life, he gave us woe.
Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love set on thy
horns.
By Jove the stranger and the poor are sent, And what to those we give, to Jove is lent.
'T is fortune gives us birth, But Jove alone endues the soul with worth.
Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose For in your beautys orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
In every age,
In ev'ry clime ador'd,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!
And threat'ning France, plac'd like a painted Jove, Kept idle thunder in his lifted hand.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories