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  • Gino Castaldo: [Do] you look out for new writers?
    Bob Dylan: Yeah, but I don't believe there are any, because we live in another age. The media is very invasive. What could you possibly write that you haven't seen every day in the newspapers or on television?
    Gino Castaldo: But there are emotions that have to be expressed.
    Bob Dylan: Yeah, but the media control people's emotions, anyway. When there were people around like William Blake, Shelley or Byron there probably wasn't any form of media. Just gazzettes. You could feel free to put down whatever you had in your mind...
    Gino Castaldo: Do you think the TV and the media have killed poetry?
    Bob Dylan: Oh, absolutely. Because literature is written for a public. There's nobody like Kafka who just sits down and writes something without wanting somebody to read it.
    Gino Castaldo: Every writer?
    Bob Dylan: Yeah, sure, but the media does this for everybody. You can't see things that are more horrible than what the media give you. The news shows people things that they couldn't even dream about and even ideas that people thought they could repress, but they see them and they can't even repress them anymore. So what can a writer do when every idea is already exposed in the media before he can even grasp it and develop it?
    Gino Castaldo: How do you react to all this?
    Bob Dylan: We live in a world of fantasy where Disney has won, the fantasy of Disney. It's all fantasy. That's why I think that if a writer has something to say he should say it at all costs. The world is real. Fantasy has become the real world. Whether we realize it or not.
  • Bob Dylan: The media is all-pervasive. What can a writer think of to write that you don't see every day in a newspaper or on television?
    Dave Fanning: Well, there are emotions to be expressed.
    Bob Dylan: The media is moving people's emotions anyway. When Rimbaud was writing, William Blake or Shelley or Byron or any of those people, there probably wasn't any media, just somewhere where you could feel free to put down anything that came into your mind...
    Dave Fanning: So it's safe to make the assumption that TV and the media in general have killed poetry and literature.
    Bob Dylan: Absolutely. Absolutely. Even literature is written for an audience. It's not just written, it doesn't sit down. Everybody's not Kafka, sitting down and writing something that should ever be seen by... that you don't want some analyst to see. Most people who sit down, they want people to see it. They want people to read it. They want a person's reaction. They want some type of acceptance. But the media is doing that for everybody now. And movies and TV. I mean, you can't see more horrific things than you see in the media, especially the news. I'm just talking about the news department, which is showing people absolutely everything they'd ever even dreamed about. Even thoughts they might think and suppress forever, they'd see them in the media. So you can't express them anymore. What's a writer to do if every idea is exposed in the media before he can get to it or let it evolve? What's a writer gonna write about? ... It's a science-fiction world. We're living in a science-fiction world. We're living in a world that Disney has conquered. Disney's science fiction. Theme parks, trendy streets, it's all science fiction. So I'd say that if a writer has something to say, he'll have to do it within that science-fiction world. Whether we realize it or not science fiction has become the real world.
    • Press conference (23 July 2001) covered in The Irish Times Magazine (29 September 2001)
  • Well-pleased the reader's wonder to engage,
    He brings our grandsires' habit on the stage,
    And garbs that whilom graced an uncouth age.
  • And, rapt beyond himself, admires the force
    That drives him on reluctant to the course.
  • Oft in their sleep, inspired with rage divine,
    Some bards enjoy the visions of the Nine.
  • Οὐδ᾽ ἄρ᾽ Ἀθηναίην προτέρω λάθον ὁρμηθέντες·
    αὐτίκα δ᾽ ἐσσυμένως νεφέλης ἐπιβᾶσα πόδεσσιν
    κούφης, ἥ κε φέροι μιν ἄφαρ βριαρήν περ ἐοῦσαν,
    σεύατ᾽ ἴμεν πόντονδε, φίλα φρονέουσ᾽ ἐρέτῃσιν.
    ὡς δ᾽ ὅτε τις πάτρηθεν ἀλώμενος, οἷά τε πολλὰ
    πλαζόμεθ᾽ ἄνθρωποι τετληότες, οὐδέ τις αἶα
    τηλουρός, πᾶσαι δὲ κατόψιοί εἰσι κέλευθοι,
    σφωιτέρους δ᾽ ἐνόησε δόμους, ἄμυδις δὲ κέλευθος
    ὑγρή τε τραφερή τ᾽ ἰνδάλλεται, ἄλλοτε δ᾽ ἄλλῃ
    ὀξέα πορφύρων ἐπιμαίεται ὀφθαλμοῖσιν·
    ὧς ἄρα καρπαλίμως κούρη Διὸς ἀίξασα
    θῆκεν ἐπ᾽ ἀξείνοιο πόδας Θυνηίδος ἀκτῆς.
    • Argo's departure did not escape Athene's eye. She promptly took her stand on a cloud which, though light, could bear her formidable weight, and swept down to the sea, filled with concern for the oarsmen in the ship. There comes a moment to the patient traveller (and there are many such that wander far afield) when the road ahead of him is clear and the distance so foreshortened that he has a vision of his home, he sees his way to it over land and sea, and in his fancy travels there and back so quickly that it seems to stand before his eager eyes. Such was Athene's speed as she darted down to set foot on the inhospitable coast of Thynia.
      • Lines 537–548. E. V. Rieu notes: "[This] elaborate attempt to convey to us by a simile the speed of Athene's descent from the sky, has baffled all translators, including myself."
  • Some of the Argonauts went to fetch dry wood; some collected leaves from the fields and brought them in for bedding.
  • The elm tree planted by Eleanor Bold, the judge's daughter, fell last night.
    • Peace (1975), opening line
  • Punica se quantis attollet gloria rebus!
    • To what heights will Punic glory soar?
    • Line 49 (tr. Fairclough).
  • Tamen cantabitis, Arcades, inquit,
    Montibus haec vestris, soli cantare periti
    Arcades. O mihi tum quam molliter ossa quiescant,
    Vestra meos olim si fistula dicat amores!
    • Yet ye, O Arcadians, will sing this tale to your mountains; Arcadians only know how to sing. O how softly then would my bones repose, if in other days your pipes should tell my love!
    • Book X, lines 31–34 (tr. Fairclough).
  • Posthabui tamen illorum mea seria ludo.
    Alternis igitur contendere versibus ambo
    Coepere; alternos Musae meminisse volebant.
    • My serious business gave way to their playing.
      So they began the contest, in alternate
      Verses, which the Muses wished recalled.
    • Book VII, lines 17–19 (tr. Paul Alpers).
  • O vere Phrygiae, neque enim Phryges!
    • Phrygian women—that's what you are—not Phrygian men!
    • Line 617 (tr. Fagles).
  • Projecere animas.
    • They threw their lives away.
    • Line 436 (tr. Fagles).
  • His diction being, generally speaking, so pure, so elegant, and full of graces, and the turn of his lines so perfectly melodious, that I hardly believe believe the Original Italian has greatly advantage in either: nor could any author, in my opinion, be justified for attempting Tasso anew, as long as his translation can be read.
    • Elizabeth Cooper, The Muses Library (1741), p. 343
Beatrice am I, who do bid thee go.
  • I' son Beatrice che ti faccio andare;
    vegno del loco ove tornar disio;
    amor mi mosse, che mi fa parlare.
    • Beatrice am I, who do bid thee go;
      I come from there, where I would fain return;
      Love moved me, which compelleth me to speak.
    • Canto II, lines 70–72 (tr. Longfellow)
  • Supreme ruler of gods, pity, I beg,
    The Arcadian king, and hear a father's prayer:
    If by thy will my son survives, and fate
    Spares him, and if I live to see him still,
    To meet him yet again, I pray for life;
    There is no trouble I cannot endure.
    But, Fortune, if you threaten some black day,
    Now, now let me break off my bitter life
    While all's in doubt, while hope of what's to come
    Remains uncertain, while I hold you here,
    Dear boy, my late delight, my only one—
    And may no graver message ever come
    To wound my ears.
    • Lines 578–580 (tr. Robert Fitzgerald).
  • Καὶ Θάνατον, τέκε δ᾽ Ὕπνον.
  • Homère a fait Virgile, dit-on; si cela est, c'est sans doute son plus bel ouvrage.
  • If Homer sometimes nods, Apollonius may be said to be only occasionally awake.
  • A translator, who does not thus consider the different genius of the two languages in which he is concerned, with such parallel turns of thought and expression as correspond with one another in both of them, may value himself upon being a faithful interpreter; but in works of wit and humour will never do justice to his author, or credit to himself.
  • But me, love of Parnassus doth invite,
    To Hills untracted; there is my delight.
  • Corruption lives, and is by covering fed.
  • Slight is the Theam; but not the Glory slight.
  • a Translator owes so much to the Taste of the Age in which he lives
    • Notes to Book XI

And I saw Sisyphus too, bound to his own torture,
grappling his monstrous boulder with both arms working,
heaving, hands struggling, legs driving, he kept on
thrusting the rock uphill toward the brink, but just
as it teetered, set to topple over—time and again
the immense weight of the thing would wheel it back and
the ruthless boulder would bound and tumble down to the plain again

  • Εἰ μάλα καρτερός ἐσσι, θεός που σοὶ τό γ' ἔδωκεν.
    • For know, vain man! thy valour is from God.
    • Iliad, I. 178; Agamemnon to Achilles.
'Nobody, friends'—Polyphemus bellowed back from his cave—
'Nobody's killing me now by fraud and not by force.'
  • Τί πρῶτόν τοι ἔπειτα, τί δ' ὑστάτιον καταλέξω.
    • Well then, what shall I go through first,
      what shall I save for last?
    • Odyssey, IX. 14 (tr. Robert Fagles)
  • Οὐδέ κεν ἴρηξ
    κίρκος ὁμαρτήσειεν, ἐλαφρότατος πετεηνῶν.
    • Not even a darting hawk,
      the quickest thing on wings, could keep her pace.
    • Book XIII, lines 86–87 (tr. Robert Fagles).
  • Βίας ὑποδέγμενος ἀνδρῶν.
    • And bear unmoved the wrongs of base mankind,
      The last, and hardest, conquest of the mind.
    • Book XIII, line 310 (tr. Alexander Pope).
  • Σχοίνῳ ὑπεκλίνθη, κύσε δὲ ζείδωρον ἄρουραν.
    • The bank he press'd, and gently kiss'd the ground.
    • Book V, line 463 (tr. Alexander Pope).
  • ἦ οὐχ ἅλις ὅττι γυναῖκας ἀνάλκιδας ἠπεροπεύεις.
    • Enough for thee weak women to delude.
    • Iliad, V. 349 (tr. Lord Derby).
  • ὅς οἱ πολλὰ κάμῃσι θεὸς δ ἐπὶ ἔργον ἀέξῃ
    • who has worked hard for him and whose work heaven has prospered
    • Odyssey, XIV. 65 (tr. E. V. Rieu)
  • But when Ulysses rose, in thought profound,
    His modest eyes he fixed upon the ground;
    As one unskilled or dumb, he seemed to stand,
    Nor raised his head, nor stretched his sceptred hand;
    But when he speaks, what elocution flows!
    Soft as the fleeces of descending snows,
    The copious accents fall, with easy art;
    Melting they fall, and sink into the heart:
    we hear, and, fixed in deep surprise,
    Our ears refute the censure of our eyes.
  • Perguntar de que morreu alguém é estúpido, com o tempo a causa esquece, só uma palavra fica, Morreu
    • It is foolish for anyone to ask what someone died from, in time the cause will be forgotten, only two words remain, She died
      • p. 182
  • The whole machine creaked, the metal plates and the entwined canes, and suddenly, as if it were being sucked in by a luminous vortex, it ... soared like an arrow straight up into the sky. ... Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco had grabbed one of the plummets that supported the sails, which allowed him to see the machine move away from earth at the most incredible speed. ... What's that yonder in the distance? Lisbon, of course. And the river, ah, the sea, that sea which I, Bartolomeu Lourenco de Gusmao, sailed twice from Brazil, that sea which I sailed to Holland. To how many more continents on land and in the air will you transport me, Passarola? ... If only the King could see me now ... if only the Holy Office of the Inquisition could see me now. ... Baltasar and Blimunda finally scrambled to their feet, nervously holding on to the plummets, then to the rail, dazed by the light and the wind. Suddenly they were no longer frightened. Ah, Baltasar shouted, we've made it. He embraced Blimunda and burst into tears.
    • p. 183
  • His extraordinary gifts of invention and narration, his radical intelligence, wit, humor, good sense, and goodness of heart, will shine out to anyone who values such qualities in an artist, but his age gives his art a singular edge. ... He's been farther and learned more. He has seen most of the twentieth century, and has had time to think about it, decide what matters, and learn how to say it. The energy and mastery with which he says it is a marvel. He is the only novelist of my generation who tells me what I didn't know, or rather, what I didn't know I knew: the only one I still learn from. He had the time and the courage to earn that subtle and unpretentious kind of understanding we call, inadequately, wisdom.
    • Ursula K. Le Guin, Words Are My Matter (2016), "Examples of Dignity: Thoughts on the Work of José Saramago"
  • "You learn something new every day." Actually, you learn something old every day. Just because you just learned it, doesn't mean it's new.

Nor shall my hand the golden prize withhold:
Like your proud lord, I envy not the bold.

The conscious infant so, when fear alarms,
Retires for safety to the mother's arms.
Thus Ajax guards his brother in the field,
Moves as he moves, and turns the shining shield.

Great Agamemnon views with joyful eye
The ranks grow thinner as his arrows fly:

Now deep in ocean sunk the lamp of light,
And drew behind the cloudy veil of night:
The conquering Trojans mourn his beams decayed;
The Greeks rejoicing bless the friendly shade.

Wounds, that long hence may ask their spouses' care,
And warn their children from a Trojan war.

Then tell him, loud, that all the Greeks may hear,
And learn to scorn the wretch they basely fear;
For, armed in impudence, mankind he braves,
And meditates new cheats on all his slaves;
Though, shameless as he is, to face these eyes
Is what he dares not; if he dares, he dies;
Tell him, all terms, all commerce, I decline,
Nor share his council, nor his battle join;
For once deceived, was his; but twice, were mine.

My fates long since by Thetis were disclosed,
And each alternate, life or fame, proposed:
Here if I stay, before the Trojan town,
Short is my date, but deathless my renown;
If I return, I quit immortal praise
For years on years, and long-extended days.

And cursed thee with a mind that cannot yield.

It would have made a Stoic smile to have seen me and my little family sit down to dinner. There was my majesty the prince and lord of the whole island; I had the lives of all my subjects at my absolute command...and no rebels among all my subjects. Then, to see how like a king I dined, too, all alone, attended by my servants! Poll...was the only person permitted to talk to me. My dog, who was now grown old and crazy...sat always at my right hand; and two cats, one on one side of the table and one on the other... With this attendance and in this plentiful manner I lived; neither could I be said to want anything but society.

And now I saw how easy it was for the providence of God to make even the most miserable condition of mankind worse. Now I looked back upon my desolate, solitary island as the most pleasant place in the world and all the happiness my heart could wish for was to be but there again. I stretched out my hands to it, with eager wishes: O happy desert! said I, I shall never see thee more...

A youth unshod amid the crowd appears,
Cause of thy ruin, subject of thy fears.
  • A youth unshod amid the crowd appears,
    Cause of thy ruin, subject of thy fears.
  • I remember also distinctly, (though I have not for this the authority of my journal,) that the conversation going on concerning Mr. Pope, I took notice of a report which had been sometimes propagated that he did not understand Greek. Lord Bathurst said to me, that he knew that to be false; for that part of the Iliad was translated by Mr. Pope in his house in the country; and that in the mornings when they assembled at breakfast, Mr. Pope used frequently to repeat, with great rapture, the Greek lines which he had been translating, and then to give them his version of them, and to compare them together.
    • Hugh Blair, letter to James Boswell (21 September 1779), published in The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. by James Boswell, ed. Henry Baldwin, Vol. II (1791), p. 300.
  • Indeed it is impossible for any Translator, and much less for this, to express in a Translation the Poetical Language of HOMER. By the Advantage of the Language in which he wrote, he had several Ways of rendering his Language poetical, which a Translator can never have; as the frequent Use of compounded and decompounded Words; the Use of Words which were as it were at one and the same time both Grecian and Foreign; as being confin'd in their vulgar Use to some particular Part of Greece; as likewise the Use of Words which were purely Poetick, and which were seldom or never us'd in Prose; the contracting or lengthening the Words which he used, and the frequent transposing of Syllables; and, lastly, the altering the Terminations of Words, by means of the different Dialects.
    • John Dennis, Remarks upon Mr. Pope's Translation of Homer (1717)
  • And say, has fame so dear, so dazzling charms?
    Must brutal fierceness and the trade of arms,
    Conquest, and laurels dipt in blood, be prized,
    While life is scorn'd, and all its joys despised?
    • The Lusiad (1776), Book IV, pp. 185.
  • Let the cravens who contend that the free genius and taste of divine Virgil were prisoners of Homer's inventions hold their peace. It was not thus. The arguments of Homer which nature proposed to him were corrected by Virgil as a schoolboy's theme by his professor.
    • Julius Caesar Scaliger, Poetices (1561), Book V, Ch. 3; as quoted in "Life of Julius Caesar Scaliger (1484-1558)" by Vernon Hall, Jr. — Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, Vol. 40, Part 2 (October, 1950), p. 153

Nin = Adalgisa!

  • ... no tempo que a luz clara
    Foge, e as estrelas nítidas que saem
    A repouso convidam quando caem,

    Estando já deitado no áureo leito,
    Onde imaginações mais certas são,
    Revolvendo contino no conceito
    De seu ofício e sangue a obrigação,
    Os olhos lhe ocupou o sono aceito,
    Sem lhe desocupar o coração;
    Porque, tanto que lasso se adormece,
    Morfeu em várias formas lhe aparece.

    Aqui se lhe apresenta que subia
    Tão alto que tocava à prima Esfera,
    Donde diante vários mundos via,
    Nações de muita gente, estranha e fera.
    E lá bem junto donde nace o dia,
    Despois que os olhos longos estendera,
    Viu de antigos, longincos e altos montes
    Nacerem duas claras e altas fontes.

    Aves agrestes, feras e alimárias
    Pelo monte selvático habitavam;
    Mil árvores silvestres e ervas várias
    O passo e o trato às gentes atalhavam.
    Estas duras montanhas, adversárias
    De mais conversação, por si mostravam
    Que, dês que Adão pecou aos nossos anos,
    Não as romperam nunca pés humanos.

    Das águas se lhe antolha que saíam,
    Par' ele os largos passos inclinando,
    Dous homens, que mui velhos pareciam,
    De aspeito, inda que agreste, venerando.
    Das pontas dos cabelos lhe saíam
    Gotas, que o corpo todo vão banhando;
    A cor da pele, baça e denegrida;
    A barba hirsuta, intonsa, mas comprida.

    D'ambos de dous a fronte coroada
    Ramos não conhecidos e ervas tinha.
    Um deles a presença traz cansada,
    Como quem de mais longe ali caminha;
    E assi a água, com ímpeto alterada,
    Parecia que doutra parte vinha,
    Bem como Alfeu de Arcádia em Siracusa
    Vai buscar os abraços de Aretusa.

    Este, que era o mais grave na pessoa,
    Destarte pera o Rei de longe brada:
    – «Ó tu, a cujos reinos e coroa
    Grande parte do mundo está guardada,
    Nós outros, cuja fama tanto voa,
    Cuja cerviz bem nunca foi domada,
    Te avisamos que é tempo que já mandes
    A receber de nós tributos grandes.

    «Eu sou o ilustre Ganges, que na terra
    Celeste tenho o berço verdadeiro;
    Estoutro é o Indo, Rei que, nesta serra
    Que vês, seu nascimento tem primeiro.
    Custar-t'-emos contudo dura guerra;
    Mas, insistindo tu, por derradeiro,
    Com não vistas vitórias, sem receio
    A quantas gentes vês porás o freio.»

    Não disse mais o Rio ilustre e santo,
    Mas ambos desparecem num momento.
    Acorda Emanuel cum novo espanto
    E grande alteração de pensamento.

    King Manuel's dream of the rivers Ganges and Indus
    • Now, from the sky, the sacred light withdrawn,
      O'er heaven's clear azure shone the stars of dawn,
      Deep silence spread her gloomy wings around,
      And human griefs were wrapp'd in sleep profound.
      The monarch slumber'd on his golden bed,
      Yet, anxious cares possess'd his thoughtful head;
      His gen'rous soul, intent on public good,
      The glorious duties of his birth review'd.
      When, sent by Heaven, a sacred dream inspir'd
      His lab'ring mind, and with its radiance fir'd:
      High to the clouds his tow'ring head was rear'd,
      New worlds, and nations fierce, and strange, appear'd;
      The purple dawning o'er the mountains flow'd,
      The forest-boughs with yellow splendour glow'd;
      High, from the steep, two copious glassy streams
      Roll'd down, and glitter'd in the morning beams;
      Here, various monsters of the wild were seen,
      And birds of plumage azure, scarlet, green:
      Here, various herbs, and flow'rs of various bloom;
      There, black as night, the forest's horrid gloom,
      Whose shaggy brakes, by human step untrod,
      Darken'd the glaring lion's dread abode.
      Here, as the monarch fix'd his wond'ring eyes,
      Two hoary fathers from the streams arise;
      Their aspect rustic, yet, a reverend grace
      Appear'd majestic on their wrinkled face:
      Their tawny beards uncomb'd, and sweepy long,
      Adown their knees in shaggy ringlets hung;
      From every lock the crystal drops distil,
      And bathe their limbs, as in a trickling rill;
      Gay wreaths of flowers, of fruitage, and of boughs,
      (Nameless in Europe), crown'd their furrow'd brows.
      Bent o'er his staff, more silver'd o'er with years,
      Worn with a longer way, the one appears;
      Who now slow beck'ning with his wither'd hand,
      As now advanc'd before the king they stand:—

      "O thou, whom worlds to Europe yet unknown,
      Are doom'd to yield, and dignify thy crown;
      To thee our golden shores the Fates decree;
      Our necks, unbow'd before, shall bend to thee.
      Wide thro' the world resounds our wealthy fame;
      Haste, speed thy prows, that fated wealth to claim.
      From Paradise my hallow'd waters spring;
      The sacred Ganges I, my brother king
      Th' illustrious author of the Indian name:
      Yet, toil shall languish, and the fight shall flame;
      Our fairest lawns with streaming gore shall smoke,
      Ere yet our shoulders bend beneath the yoke;
      But, thou shalt conquer: all thine eyes survey,
      With all our various tribes, shall own thy sway."

      He spoke; and, melting in a silv'ry stream,
      Both disappear'd; when waking from his dream,
      The wond'ring monarch, thrill'd with awe divine,
      Weighs in his lofty thoughts the sacred sign.

    • Canto IV, st. 67–75 (as translated by William Julius Mickle).
  • Dada ao mundo por Deus que todo o mande,
    Pera do mundo a Deus dar parte grande.
  • La mayor venganza del que es sabio
    Es olvidar la causa del agravio.
    • El desprecio agradecido (1633), Act I, scene xi.

Aquilo que é inevitável torna-se fácil, se formos realistas, e humildes. (MP)

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.

  • He was in love with [imagination].
    • Owen Barfield, as quoted in Christianity & Literature, Vol. 40, No. 1 (Autumn 1990), p. 314


jonathan swift

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


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.