SupaDudz Memorial Profile Pic Pick o' the Week: Oh.No.No. 29- PHARSALUSI

Author: oromagi ,

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  • oromagi
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    Angustam amice pauperiem pati
    robustus acri militia puer
         condiscat et Parthos ferocis
         vexet eques metuendus hasta

    vitamque sub divo et trepidis agat              
    in rebus. Illum ex moenibus hosticis
         matrona bellantis tyranni
         prospiciens et adulta virgo

    suspiret, eheu, ne rudis agminum
    sponsus lacessat regius asperum              
         tactu leonem, quem cruenta
         per medias rapit ira caedes.

    Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori:
    mors et fugacem persequitur virum
         nec parcit inbellis iuventae
         poplitibus timidove tergo.              

    Virtus, repulsae nescia sordidae,
    intaminatis fulget honoribus
         nec sumit aut ponit securis
         arbitrio popularis aurae.              

    Virtus, recludens inmeritis mori
    caelum, negata temptat iter via
         coetusque volgaris et udam
         spernit humum fugiente pinna.

    Est et fideli tuta silentio              
    merces: vetabo, qui Cereris sacrum
         volgarit arcanae, sub isdem
         sit trabibus fragilemque mecum

    solvat phaselon; saepe Diespiter
    neglectus incesto addidit integrum,              
         raro antecedentem scelestum
         deservit pede Poena claudo.

    -Horace, Odes 3

  • oromagi
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    oromagi avatar
    "Farce, Alice?"

    - Ralph Kramden
  • oromagi
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    oromagi avatar
    Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
    Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
    Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
    And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
    Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
    But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
    Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
    Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

    Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
    Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
    But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
    And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
    Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
    As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

    In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
    He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

    If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
    Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
    And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
    His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
    If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
    Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
    Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
    Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
    My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
    To children ardent for some desperate glory,
    The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
    Pro patria mori.

    -Wilfred Owen