mirror of
https://git.FreeBSD.org/src.git
synced 2024-12-14 10:09:48 +00:00
554eb505f8
of the x11 based games. I'm not going to tag the originals with bsd_44_lite and do this in two stages since it's just not worth it for this collection, and I've got directory renames to deal with that way. Bleah. Submitted by: jkh
185 lines
5.8 KiB
Plaintext
185 lines
5.8 KiB
Plaintext
Come live with me and be my love:\
|
|
And we will all the pleasures prove:\
|
|
{The }Passionate Shepherd{ to his Love}:\
|
|
{Christopher }Marlowe
|
|
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day{?}:\
|
|
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:\
|
|
Sonnet 18:\
|
|
{William }Shakespeare
|
|
Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave, and new!:\
|
|
Good pennyworths{! }but money cannot move:\
|
|
Fine Knacks{ for Ladies}:\
|
|
{John }Dowland
|
|
My mind to me a kingdom is:\
|
|
Such perfect joy therein I find:\
|
|
My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is:\
|
|
{Sir }{Edward }Dyer
|
|
Underneath this stone doth lie:\
|
|
As much beauty as could die:\
|
|
Epitaph on Elizabeth{,} {L. H.}:\
|
|
{Ben }Jonson
|
|
Death be not proud, though some have called thee:\
|
|
Mighty and dreadful{,} for thou art not so:\
|
|
{Holy }Sonnet{s}{ 10}:\
|
|
{John }Donne
|
|
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may:\
|
|
Old Time is still a-flying:\
|
|
To the Virgins{,} {To Make Much of Time}:\
|
|
{Robert }Herrick
|
|
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?:\
|
|
Prithee{,} why so pale{?}:\
|
|
Song:\
|
|
{Sir }{John }Suckling
|
|
Stone walls do not a prison make:\
|
|
Nor iron bars a cage:\
|
|
To Althea{,} From Prison:\
|
|
{Richard }Lovelace
|
|
I could not love thee (Dear) so much,:\
|
|
Lov['|e]d I not hono{u}r more:\
|
|
To Lucasta{, Going to the Wars}:\
|
|
{Richard }Lovelace
|
|
I saw Eternity the other night:\
|
|
Like a great ring of pure and endless light:\
|
|
{The }World:\
|
|
{Henry }Vaughan
|
|
Come and trip it as you go,:\
|
|
On the light fantastic toe:\
|
|
L'Allegro:\
|
|
{John }Milton
|
|
When I consider how my light is spent:\
|
|
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide:\
|
|
On His Blindness|When I Consider:\
|
|
{John }Milton
|
|
The grave's a fine and private place{,}:\
|
|
But none{,} I think{,} do there embrace{.}:\
|
|
To His Coy Mistress:\
|
|
{Andrew }Marvel
|
|
Great wits are sure to madness near allied:\
|
|
And thin partitions do their bounds divide:\
|
|
Absalom and Achitophel|Absalom:\
|
|
{John }Dryden
|
|
A little learning is a dangerous thing{;}:\
|
|
Drink deep{,} or taste not the Pierian spring{.}:\
|
|
{An }Essay on Criticism|{On }Criticism:\
|
|
{Alexander }Pope
|
|
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day{,}:\
|
|
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea:\
|
|
Elegy{ Written in a Country Church{-| }Yard:\
|
|
{Thomas }Gray
|
|
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft a-gley{,}:\
|
|
An{'|d} lea{'|v}e us nought but grief an{'|d} pain for promised joy{.}:\
|
|
To a Mouse:\
|
|
{Robert }Burns
|
|
Tiger! tiger! burning bright!:\
|
|
In the forests of the night:\
|
|
{The }Tiger:\
|
|
{William }Blake
|
|
My heart leaps up when I behold:\
|
|
A rainbow in the sky:\
|
|
My Heart Leaps Up:\
|
|
{William }Wordsworth
|
|
The world is too much with us; late and soon{,}:\
|
|
Getting and spending{,} we lay waste our powers:\
|
|
{The }World is Too Much With Us|Sonnet:\
|
|
{William }Wordsworth
|
|
A sadder and a wiser man{,}:\
|
|
He rose the morrow morn:\
|
|
{The }{Rime of }{The }Ancient Mariner:\
|
|
{Samuel }{Taylor }Coleridge
|
|
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan:\
|
|
A stately pleasure{-| }dome decree:\
|
|
Kubla Khan:\
|
|
{Samuel }{Taylor }Coleridge
|
|
She walks in beauty, like the night:\
|
|
Of cloudless climes and starry skies:\
|
|
She Walks in Beauty:\
|
|
{George Gordon, }{Lord }Byron
|
|
I want a hero- an uncommon want{,}:\
|
|
When every year and month sends forth a new one:\
|
|
Don Juan{ Canto I}:\
|
|
{George Gordon, }{Lord }Byron
|
|
A thing of beauty is a joy forever.:\
|
|
Its loveliness increases{;|.} {it will never/Pass into nothingness}:\
|
|
Endymion{ Book I}:\
|
|
{John }Keats
|
|
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole:\
|
|
Unequal laws unto a savage race:\
|
|
Ulysses:\
|
|
{Alfred{,} }{Lord }Tennyson
|
|
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force{,}:\
|
|
Something better than his dog{,} a little dearer than his horse:\
|
|
Locksley Hall:\
|
|
{Alfred{,} }{Lord }Tennyson
|
|
'Tis better to have loved and lost:\
|
|
Than never to have loved at all:\
|
|
{In }Memoriam{ A. H. H.}:\
|
|
{Alfred{,} }{Lord }Tennyson
|
|
Kind hearts are more than coronets,:\
|
|
And simple faith than Norman blood{.}:\
|
|
Lady Clara Vere de Vere:\
|
|
{Alfred{,} }{Lord }Tennyson
|
|
Oh, to be in England:\
|
|
Now that April's there:\
|
|
Home{-| }Thoughts{,} From Abroad:\
|
|
{Robert }Browning
|
|
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp{,}:\
|
|
Or what's a heaven for{?}:\
|
|
Andrea Del Sarto:\
|
|
{Robert }Browning
|
|
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.:\
|
|
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height:\
|
|
Sonnet{s} {From the Portuguese}{ 43}:\
|
|
{Elizabeth }{Barrett }Browning
|
|
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough{,}:\
|
|
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread{-|,| }and Thou:\
|
|
{The }Rubaiyat{ of Omar Khayyam}{ 12}:\
|
|
{Edward }Fitzgerald
|
|
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,:\
|
|
Moves on{\:|,|.} nor all your Piety nor Wit:\
|
|
{The }Rubaiyat{ of Omar Khayyam}{ 71}:\
|
|
{Edward }Fitzgerald
|
|
Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire:\
|
|
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire:\
|
|
{The }Rubaiyat{ of Omar Khayyam}{ 99}:\
|
|
{Edward }Fitzgerald
|
|
Remember me when I am gone away,:\
|
|
Gone far away into the silent land:\
|
|
Remember:\
|
|
{Christina }Rossetti
|
|
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,:\
|
|
And the hunter home from the hill:\
|
|
Requiem:\
|
|
{Robert }{Louis }Stevenson
|
|
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;:\
|
|
I fled Him, down the arches of the years:\
|
|
{The }Hound of Heaven:\
|
|
{Francis }Thompson
|
|
So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;:\
|
|
You're a {pore|poor} benighted {'|h}eathen but a first class fightin{'|g} man:\
|
|
Fuzzy{-| }Wuzzy:\
|
|
{Rudyard }Kipling
|
|
Morns abed and daylight slumber:\
|
|
Were not meant for man alive:\
|
|
Reveille:\
|
|
{A{.}{ }E{.}{ }}Houseman
|
|
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,:\
|
|
And a small cabin build there{,} of clay and wattles made:\
|
|
{The }{Lake Isle of }Innisfree:\
|
|
{William }{Butler }Yeats
|
|
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,:\
|
|
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by:\
|
|
Sea{-| }Fever:\
|
|
{John }Masefield
|
|
April is the cruelest month, breeding:\
|
|
Lilacs out of the dead land:\
|
|
{The }Waste{ }Land:\
|
|
{T{.}{ }S{.}{ }}Eliot
|
|
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs:\
|
|
About the little house and happy as the grass was green:\
|
|
Fern Hill:\
|
|
{Dylan }Thomas
|
|
Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit:\
|
|
Of that forbidden tree{,} whose mortal taste:\
|
|
Paradise Lost:\
|
|
{John }Milton
|