Vulgar words in The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 4 (Page 1)
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I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,[215] Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,[216] With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.
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could I scale Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing Those pretty poems never known to fail, How quickly would I print (the world delighting) A Grecian, Syrian,[221] or _Ass_yrian tale; And sell you, mixed with western Sentimentalism, Some samples of the _finest Orientalism._ LII.
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They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, They scarcely can behold their male relations, So that their moments do not pass so gaily As is supposed the case with northern nations; Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely; And as the Turks abhor long conversations, Their days are either passed in doing nothing, Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing.
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Banished from the court on account of a quarrel, he withdrew to his mother's estate in Volhynia, and there, to beguile the time, made love to the wife of a neighbouring magnate, the _pane_ or Lord Falbowski.
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As Byron had foreseen, _Marino Faliero_ was coldly received by the playgoing public, and proved a loss to the "speculating buffoons," who had not realized that it was "unfit for their Fair or their booth" (Letter to Murray, January 20, 1821, _Letters_, 1901, v. 228, and p. 226, note 2.
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40 I perish, but not unavenged; far ages Float up from the abyss of Time to be, And show these eyes, before they close, the doom Of this proud City, and I leave my curse On her and hers for ever!----Yes, the hours Are silently engendering of the day, When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield, Unto a bastard Attila,[471] without Shedding so much blood in her last defence, 50 As these old veins, oft drained in shielding her, Shall pour in sacrifice.--She shall be bought And sold, and be an appanage to those Who shall despise her!
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_'Tis Pity she's a Whore_, by John Ford.
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lines 1, 2-- "The fool of false dominion--and a kind Of bastard Cæsar," etc.]
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I am, God knows, as helpless as the Devil can wish, And not a whit more difficult to damn, Than is to bring to land a late-hooked fish, Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb; Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish, As one day will be that immortal fry Of almost every body born to die.
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[hp] Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, When such an ass[549] as this, like Balaam's, prates?"
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[549] {518}[Compare-- "One leaf from Southey's laurels may explode All his combustibles, 'An ass, by God!'"