Author: Essays Death Salesman (---.client.insightBB.com)
Date: 11-11-02 08:35
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Abstract paintings must be as real as those created by the 16th
O! that you were your self; but, love you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again, after yourself\'s decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winter\'s day
And barren rage of death\'s eternal cold?
O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,
You had a father: let your son say so.
Well, I learned a lot... I went down to Latin America to find out from
them and (learn) their views. You\'d be surprised. They\'re all individual
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor\'d youth,
Unlearned in the world\'s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O! love\'s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter\'d be.