Hilaire Belloc (1870 – 1953)
British writer and poet, known chiefly for his essays and children's books; he was sometimes referred to by the nickname "Old Thunder".
Then he added, as men will who are of infinite imagination and crammed with desires, 'My wants are few.'
Pale Ebenezer thought it wrong to fight,
But Roaring Bill (who killed him) thought it right.
When people call this beast to mind,
They marvel more and more
At such a LITTLE tail behind,
So LARGE a trunk before.
How did the party go in Portman Square?
I cannot tell you; Juliet was not there.
And how did Lady Gaster's party go?
Juliet was next me and I do not know.
The Big Baboon is found upon
The plains of Cariboo:
He goes about with nothing on
(A shocking thing to do).
But if he dressed respectably
And let his whiskers grow,
How like this Big Baboon would be
To Mister So-and-so!
When the ephemeral vision's lure is past
All, all, must face their Passion at the last.
Gentlemen, I am a Catholic. As far as possible, I go to Mass every day. This [taking a rosary out of his pocket] is a rosary. As far as possible, I kneel down and tell these beads every day. If you reject me on account of my religion, I shall thank God that He has spared me the indignity of being your representative.
What! Would you slap the Porcupine?
Unhappy child — desist!
Alas! That any friend of mine
Should turn Tupto-philist.
Child! Do not throw this book about;
Refrain from the unholy pleasure
Of cutting all the pictures out!
Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.
To exalt, enthrone, establish and defend,
To welcome home mankind's mysterious friend
Wine, true begetter of all arts that be;
Wine, privilege of the completely free;
Wine the recorder; wine the sagely strong;
Wine, bright avenger of sly-dealing wrong,
Awake, Ausonian Muse, and sing the vineyard song!
By thee do seers the inward light discern;
By thee the statue lives, the Gods return.
When friendship disappears then there is a space left open to that awful loneliness of the outside which is like the cold of space between the planets. It is an air in which men perish utterly. Absolute dereliction is the death of the soul.
From quiet homes and first beginning,
Out to the undiscovered ends,
There's nothing worth the wear of winning,
But laughter and the love of friends.
It was my shame, and now it is my boast,
That I have loved you rather more than most.
The Llama is a wooly sort of fleecy hairy goat,
With an indolent expression and an undulating throat
Like an unsuccessful literary man.
It is the best of all trades, to make songs, and the second best to sing them.
Oh! let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!
Physicians of the Utmost Fame
Were called at once; but when they came
They answered, as they took their Fees,
"There is no Cure for this Disease."
[N]othing is worthwhile on this unhappy earth except the fulfilment of a man's desire.
The moment a man talks to his fellows he begins to lie.