How weird is the English Aristocratic clique?

Basra

LOVE wins over HATE
Let Them Eat Cake
VIP
So i am reading about a certain 17th century aristocratic woman and her circle of friends. So how is it possible that two women one older by 5 years always in competition with each other? The older wants to marry a rich man her age, he chooses the younger one. Both women meet at parties but never in the same clique. Then older woman is married to another rich man, but NOT as rich as her intended original one, she has 4 daughters and 1 son. Younger woman has two daughters and one son.

Older woman's son has an affair with younger woman's daughter 25 years later. (the daughter being older than the son by at least 12 years) Both women never know that this affair gave way to a boy and a girl illegitimate kids , but older woman is aware of the affair. (because she is very gossipy more than the younger woman who is equally another gossipy lol)



I blame ALL this on manifestation of minds. The older woman being defeated in the first marriage, always following the tails of the younger woman. Their worlds intertwine. The younger woman marries of her eldest daughter to the most richest man in England then.

and then, this is the shocker....this very son who had slept with one of the daughter, ends up marring this daughters niece, meaning the daughter of the other daughter of the original younger woman. They have 4 kids. And added the two illegitimate kids, who are half brother and sister to the kids, and also the aunt and uncle. Mess! lol

Its like a cycle of life. LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOl


Anyway-- dear diary, vented enuf


byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
 
Last edited:
Only appropriate response is

Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,
May gaze thro’ these faint smokes curling whitely,
As thou pliest thy trade in this devil’s-smithy—
Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

He is with her, and they know that I know
Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow
While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear
Empty church, to pray God in, for them!—I am here.

Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,
Pound at thy powder,—I am not in haste!
Better sit thus and observe thy strange things,
Than go where men wait me and dance at the King’s.

That in the mortar—you call it a gum?
Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come!
And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,
Sure to taste sweetly,—is that poison too?

Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures,
What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures!
To carry pure death in an earring, a casket,
A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket!

Soon, at the King’s, a mere lozenge to give
And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live!
But to light a pastile, and Elise, with her head
And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead!

Quick—is it finished? The colour’s too grim!
Why not soft like the phial’s, enticing and dim?
Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir,
And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer!

What a drop! She’s not little, no minion like me—
That’s why she ensnared him: this never will free
The soul from those masculine eyes,—say, “no!”
To that pulse’s magnificent come-and-go.

For only last night, as they whispered, I brought
My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought
Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would fall,
Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all!

Not that I bid you spare her the pain!
Let death be felt and the proof remain;
Brand, burn up, bite into its grace—
He is sure to remember her dying face!

Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose;
It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close:
The delicate droplet, my whole fortune’s fee—
If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?

Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill,
You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will!
But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings
Ere I know it—next moment I dance at the King’s!
 

Basra

LOVE wins over HATE
Let Them Eat Cake
VIP
Only appropriate response is

Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,
May gaze thro’ these faint smokes curling whitely,
As thou pliest thy trade in this devil’s-smithy—
Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

He is with her, and they know that I know
Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow
While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear
Empty church, to pray God in, for them!—I am here.

Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,
Pound at thy powder,—I am not in haste!
Better sit thus and observe thy strange things,
Than go where men wait me and dance at the King’s.

That in the mortar—you call it a gum?
Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come!
And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,
Sure to taste sweetly,—is that poison too?

Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures,
What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures!
To carry pure death in an earring, a casket,
A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket!

Soon, at the King’s, a mere lozenge to give
And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live!
But to light a pastile, and Elise, with her head
And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead!

Quick—is it finished? The colour’s too grim!
Why not soft like the phial’s, enticing and dim?
Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir,
And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer!

What a drop! She’s not little, no minion like me—
That’s why she ensnared him: this never will free
The soul from those masculine eyes,—say, “no!”
To that pulse’s magnificent come-and-go.

For only last night, as they whispered, I brought
My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought
Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would fall,
Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all!

Not that I bid you spare her the pain!
Let death be felt and the proof remain;
Brand, burn up, bite into its grace—
He is sure to remember her dying face!

Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose;
It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close:
The delicate droplet, my whole fortune’s fee—
If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?

Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill,
You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will!
But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings
Ere I know it—next moment I dance at the King’s!


Bravo @Hals is this Romeo speaking to his dead Juliet? lol
 
Are you into poetry ?
If you are
Edgar Allen Poe - the Raven
Lord tennyson - lady of shallot 1842 version
Alfred noyes- the highwayman
Walter de la mere - the listeners
Are some of my favourites
 

Basra

LOVE wins over HATE
Let Them Eat Cake
VIP
Are you into poetry ?
If you are
Edgar Allen Poe - the Raven
Lord tennyson - lady of shallot 1842 version
Alfred noyes- the highwayman
Walter de la mere - the listeners
Are some of my favourites
Thanks @Hals... i don't particularly seek out poetry, but when i read one, i connect with it. Just like Music, i don't connect to music, but when i see good music, i see it ! :) Edgar Poe is a genius
 
Thanks @Hals... i don't particularly seek out poetry, but when i read one, i connect with it. Just like Music, i don't connect to music, but when i see good music, i see it ! :) Edgar Poe is a genius
There’s a beauty to be found everywhere
 

Trending

Latest posts

Top