User:DanielTom/sandbox

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O Lord God, Almighty Father! hear the prayer of a poor, wicked, proud child! I know that my heart is full of sin, and that my body is corrupt and filthy, and that I must soon die and go down into the dust; and yet I am so foolish and so wicked as to wish to be great in this world. I wish to have a fine house to live in, and a great many servants to wait on me, and to be of great consequence, and to be made a great deal of; and yet I know, that if I had what I deserved, I should now at this moment be in hell fire. O thou that resisteth the proud, and givest grace to the humble! give me the grace of humility; make me humble and lowly in heart, content and thankful for what I have. O set my sins in order before my eyes, that I may see I have nothing to be proud of, and know that I am not worthy to be set up and made great in the world. I know that thou, O Lord! lovest humble and lowly people; and that thy blessed Son, when in this world, appeared in the form of a servant, amongst the lowest and poorest of men, and was meek and lowly in his behaviour. O Lord! send thy Holy Spirit to cleanse my heart from all proud thoughts. Teach me to know my sins and hate myself, and to humble myself before men and in thy sight. O give me a clean and a new heart, that I may rather desire to be numbered amongst the saints, and martyrs, and children of God—those holy people of whom the world was not worthy—than amongst the great and mighty men of the earth.

gawadir

jonathan swift

O wheels, O gears, eternal r-r-r-r-r-r-r!

ygoa7zi5

Me, me, adsum, qui feci, in me convertite ferrum.

Moniti meliora sequamur.

A corja de ladrões assignalados
Fugindo vem da praia Lusitana,
Que, em crimes nunca d'antes praticados,
Tem já muito excedido a audácia humana:
Que, em caurins e calotes esforçados,
Vão demandando o Império da Banana;
Tão infame ralé, corja tão porca.
Eu sempre a cantarei digna da Forca.

Time goes, you say? Ah, no!
Alas, Time stays, we go.

Their martial rage inflame:
And one the chief's young beauty fires,
One kindles at his hero sires,
One at his deeds of fame.

dn [in progress]

And now the rising day renews the year;
A day for ever sad, for ever dear.

O happy, if he knew his happy state,
The swain, who, free from bus'ness and debate,
Receives his easy food from Nature's hand,
And just returns of cultivated land!

See there, where old unhappy Priam stands!

telum imbelle sine ictu

ch c

Nee dulcia carmina quaeras;
Ornari res ipsa negat, eontenta doceri.

Homer[edit]

There are literary matters so delicate, and fastidious, that should even scare a man, who wants to judge them by himself, because having instilled such respect, that wanting to find flaws in it is to gravely indispose the human kind against whomever does it. In speaking of Homer, everybody opens their mouth three feet wide of admiration. Who would dare to criticize father Homer, considering him without the observance of commentator, after there being so many testimonies of the universal adorations, and of the eternal worship of all men, and of all centuries? Who would dare to say a word after the prolegomena, and apparatus with which Anton Maria Salvini made his translation of Homer unbearable to the eye, unbearable to the arm, unbearable to patience; to the eye because the letters are small, to the arms, because there is no one who can lift its heavy volumes, to pacience, because it never ends!

Homer's proposition in the Iliad is the following letter, by letter, translated with greater care than that of a scrivener of the original Greek in the very noble, and always loyal, English language. "Sing Goddess the pernicious wrath of Pelida Achilles, that caused six-hundred pains to the Achaeans, that prematurely sent to Orcus hell many strong souls of heroes, leaving them prey to be torn by dogs, and by all the birds, fulfilling the counsel of Jove, from the first instance in which Atreus, king of men, and the noble Achilles with a large altercation separated themselves from one another." In the first place, I don't like this, it is no longer in my hands.

As far as I am concerned, all the Iliad is an infernal mishmash, an exceedingly confusing pandemonium, an intolerable mess. The first french translator is Sorel, this man is ingenuity, who could not pass through the twelfth book, and says in the preface that he had become so tired, that he would sooner allow himself to be beheaded, than to continue through, and another french translator, called Beaumarchais, omitted the fourth book altogether, because he says, what patience is there in the world, that tolerates in verse an entire book, which is solely a chart of names of the ships, in which the Greeks came to Troy, longer than England's admiralty almanac? The French doctor Cabaniz, who made good French verses, (if these can be good) did not pass through the second book, choked, or became queasy. There certainly are in all languages complete translations, even in Spanish there is one dedicated to Filipe II. The French Rochefort took it to the end, Bitaubé did the same, Madame Dacier too. In English there are three known translations, and Pope's overshadows even Addison, though the latter did not publish it in his name. In Latin they are innumerable, I would like to see one attributed to Angelo Poliziano; among the works of this notable philologist, and poet it does not come, there can only be found one short poem, entitled Ambra, which deals with Homer's praises. In Italian there is one of Salvini, another by Cesaroti, most patient man, who even translated the poems of Ossian, son of Fingal, a truly soporific thing. In Portuguese there is of yet no translation. But what does all of this prove? That taken the blind, stubborn and servile adoration of the ancient Homer, it is a puzzle. The commentators say, that not only is he the father of the bards, the perfect example of poems, but that he is the inventor of all sciences, and arts, that he is the greatest of all philosophers, without there being any part in philosophy, that in there isn't treated, that he is a sublime legislator, a moralist, a first-rate politician, a grammarian, a rhetorician, who lent lights to Aristotle to compose everything he has written about the art of persuasion.

Whatever Homer might be, to me he is an intolerable bore, I can not bear one-legged tables, that walk by their foot without anyone touching them; horses, that speak, and cry, like whipped children; heroes, and princes roasting meat, and turning skewers; atrocious slights; Venus involved in fights; I can not bear messengers who repeat their messages with the exact same words that were given to them; I can not like the forced nicknames with which the poet designates all his heroes, like Achilles, the light foot; Juno, the bull's eye.

DanielTom (talk) 23:58, 28 November 2013 (UTC)

V[edit]

  • ‘En Priamus! Sunt hic etiam sua praemia laudi,
    Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt.
    Solve metus; feret haec aliquam tibi fama salutem.'
    Sic ait atque animum pictura pascit inani,
    Multa gemens, largoque humectat flumine vultum.
    • Priam is here, here meed to heroic worth is assigned,
      Tears are to human sorrows given, hearts feel for mankind.
      "Fear not," he cries; "Troy's glory will save thee in danger still."
      Then on the lifeless painting he feeds his heart to his fill.
      Tears streamed over his cheek as he gazed; groans broke from his breast.
    • Lines 461–464 (translated by Sir Charles Bowen).
      • Cf. Conington's translation:
        'See Priam! aye, praise waits on worth
        E'en in this corner of the earth;
        E'en here the tear of pity springs,
        And hearts are touched by human things.
        Dismiss your fear: we sure may claim
        To find some safety in our fame.'
        He said; and feeds his hungry heart
        With shapes of unsubstantial art,
        In fond remembrance groaning deep,
        While briny floods his visage steep.