||[Mar. 1st, 2009|09:59 pm]
The sky merely drools. That's the only way to describe this sluggish rain that has persisted all day and evening. Now and then a more energetic sprinkle falls, but it never lasts for more than a few seconds. There is no drumming to engage my attention, no gusts of wind to spatter even the briefest tattoo against my dry and silent windows. This is an aged dullard of a storm, mopey and muttering to itself, saying nothing worth my attention. I hope for a more robust rain, to bring some drama to the night and fill the woods with sprightly rivulets. Were it not for the distant chorus of frogs, I wouldn't even bother to go outside and listen, though the cool air is pleasant. This is no way for March to begin. |
A Fit of Rhyme Against Rhyme
by Ben Jonson
RHYME, the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but with fits
Spoiling senses of their treasure,
Cozening judgment with a measure,
But false weight;
Wresting words from their true calling,
Propping verse, for fear of falling
To the ground;
Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,
Fast'ning vowels, as with fetters
They were bound!
Soon as lazy thou wert known,
All good poetry hence was flown,
And are banished.
For a thousand years together,
All Parnassus' green did wither,
And wit vanished.
Pegasus did fly away;
At the wells no Muse did stay,
So to see the fountain dry,
And Apollo's music die,
All light failed.
Starveling rhymes did fill the stage;
Not a poet in an age,
Not a work deserving bays,
Nor a line deserving praise,
Greek was free from rhyme's infection,
Happy Greek, by this protection,
Was not spoiled.
Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,
Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
But rests foiled.
Scarce the hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish,
Phoebus to his crown again,
And the Muses to their brain,
Vulgar languages, that want
Words and sweetness, and be scant
Of true measure,
Tyrant rhyme hath so abusèd,
That they long since have refusèd
He that first invented thee,
May his joints tormented be,
Still may syllabes jar with time,
Still may reason war with rhyme,
May his sense, when it would meet
The cold tumour in his feet,
And his title be long fool,
That in rearing such a school
Was the founder.