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

Author: oromagi

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II.

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

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"Farce, Alice?"

- Ralph Kramden
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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