gri_2004_m_4_b01_f07_022
- Max. dissimilarity: 0.073
- Mean dissimilarity: 0.036
- Image votes: 0.0
Transcribers
- WINNER - 65841982 - Gpepper
- 65875225 - not-logged-in-f034e1d12795fbf0644d
- 66083237 - gaart2
- 66184621 - Preacher357
- 66364878 - wildcat2704
- 66413581 - Vmargene
WINNER - 65841982 - Gpepper
PROLOGUE TO A PLAYReturn, my Muse, the play awaits your hand.
How can I write before I understand
The action and the speech of characters;
And dare we ask one of the younger actors
To stand upon his head, to get a laugh?
I even fail to draw the loving youth,
Legal-illegal hero of the play.
I call him up; draws breath, but what to say?
Where does Pomona enter - on the right?
And should Vortumnus be against the light?
How do they look or feel or act, the Cast?
I cannot guess for, oh, my Muse is lost.
Decor unpainted, and the stage is empty.
Is a canal a river or the sea?
People the wings; illuminate the stage
Where Cupid is to beat outnumbered Age.
Unruly poet that I am I fear
To write unaided will provoke a sneer:
'What, does she then elope, the dunderhead,
Before the household has retired to bed?'
Ah, no, the brainless poet's is th'offense,
The lyrical creature is devoid of stage-sense.
Although I have the actors talking prose
Whenever I nod someone picks a rose,
Or sings a song about the trials of Psyche
In a most impracticable high key.
Only the pompous doctor can I write,
For your absence makes me no less trite.
Return, my Muse: solitude we'll barter
For our new Commedia dell'Arte.
( ) Mr. Y-----.
65875225 - not-logged-in-f034e1d12795fbf0644d
PROLOGUE TO A PLAYReturn, my Muse,the play awaits your hand.
How can I write before I understand
The action and the speech of characters;
And dare we ask one of the younger actors *
To stand upon his head, to get a laugh?
I even fail to draw the loving youth,
Legal-illegal hero of the play.
I call him up; draws breath, but what to say?
Where does Pomona enter - on the right?
And should Vortumunus be against the light?
How do they look or feel or act, the Cast?
I cannot guess for, oh, my Muse is lost.
Decor unpainted, and the stage is empty.
Is a canal a river or the sea?
People the wings; illuminate the stage
Where Cupid is to beat outnumbered Age.
Unruly poet that I am I fear
To write unaided will provoke a sneer:
'What, does she then elope, the dunderhead,
Before the household has retired to bed?'
Ah, no, the brainless poet's is th' offense,
The lyrical creature is devoid of stage-sense.
Although I have the actors talking prose
Whenever I nod someone picks a rose,
Or sings a song about the trails of Psyche
In a most impractieable high key.
Only the pompous doctor can I write
For your absence makes me no less trite.
Return, my Muse : solitude we'll barter
For our new Commedia dell'Arte.
(*) Mr. Y-----.
66083237 - gaart2
PROLOGUE TO A PLAYReturn, my Muse, the play awaits your hand.
How can I write before I understand
The action and the speech of characters;
And dare we ask one of the younger actors *
To stand upon his head, to get a laugh?
I even fail to draw the loving youth,
Legal-illegal hero of the play.
I call him up; draws breath, but what to say?
Where does Pomona enter - on the right?
And should Vortumnus be against the light?
How do they look or feel or act, the Cast?
I cannot guess for, oh, my Muse is lost.
D'ecor unpainted, and the stage is empty.
Is a canal a river or the sea?
People the wings; illuminate the stage
Where Cupid is to beat outnumbered Age.
Unruly poet that I am I fear
To write unaided will provoke a sneer:
'What, does she then elope, the dunderhead,
Before the household has retired to bed?'
Ah, no, the brainless poet's is th'offence,
The lyrical creature is devoid of stage-sense.
Although I have the actors talking prose
Whenever I nod someone picks a rose,
Or sings a song about the trials of Psyche
In a most impracticable high key.
Only the pompous doctor can I write,
For your absense makes me no less trite.
Return, my Muse: solitude we'll barter
For our new Commedia dell'Arte.
(*) Mr. Y-----.
66184621 - Preacher357
PROLOGUE TO A PLAYReturn, my Muse, the play awaits your hand.
How can I write before I understand
The action and the speech of characters;
And dare we ask one of the younger actors *
To stand upon his head, to get a laugh?
I even fail to draw the loving youth,
Legal-illegal hero of the play.
I call him up; draws breath, but what to say?
Where does Pomona enter - on the right?
And should Vortumnus be against the light?
How do they look or feel or act, the Cast?
I cannot guess for, or, my Muse is lost.
Decor unpainted, and the stage is empty.
Is a canal a river or the sea?
People the wings; illuminate the stage
Where Cupid is to beat outnumbered Age.
Unruly poet that I am I fear
To write unaided will provoke a sneer:
'What, does she then elope, the dunderhead,
Before the household has retired to bed?'
Ah, no, the brainless poet's is th' offense,
The lyrical creature is devoid of stage-sense.
Although I have the actors talking prose
Whenever I nod someone picks a rose,
Or sings a song about the trials of Psyche
In a most impractible high key.
Only the pompous doctor can I write,
For your absence makes my no less trite.
Return, my Muse: solitude we'll barter
For our new Commedia dell'Arte.
(*) Mr. Y-----.
66364878 - wildcat2704
PROLOGUE TO A PLAYReturn, my Muse, the play awaits your hand.
How can I write before I understand
The action and the speech of characters;
And dare we ask one of the younger actors *
To stand upon his head, to get a laugh?
I even fail to draw the loving youth,
Legal-illegal hero of the play.
I call him up; draws breath, but what to say?
Where does Pomona enter - on the right?
And how should Vortumnus be against the light?
How do they look or feel or act, the Cast?
I cannot guess for, oh, my Muse is lost.
Decor unpainted, and the stage is empty.
Is a canal a river or the sea?
People he wings; illuminate the stage
Where Cupid is to beat outnumbered Age.
Unduly poet that I am I fear
To write unaided will provoke a sneer:
'What, does she then elope, the dunderhead,
Before the household has retired to bed?'
Ah, no, the brainless poet's is the offense,
The lyrical creature is devoid of stage-sense.
Although I have the actors talking prose
Whenever I nod someone picks a rose,
Or sings a song about the trails of Psyche
In a most impracticable high key.
Only the pompous doctor can can I write,
For your absence makes me no less trite.
Return, my Muse: solitude we'll barter
For our new Commedia dell'Arte.
(*) Mr. Y-----
66413581 - Vmargene
PROLOGUE TO A PLAYReturn, my Muse, the play awaits your hand,
How can I write before I understand
The action and the speech of characters;
And dare we ask one of the younger actors *
To stand upon his head, to get a laugh?
I even fail to draw the loving youth,
Legal-illegal hero of the play.
I call him up; draws breath, but what to say?
Where does Pomona enter - on the right?
And should Vortumnus be against the light?
How do they look or feel or act, the Cast?
I cannot guess for, oh, my Muse is lost.
D'ecor unpainted, and the stage is empty.
Is a canal a river or the sea?
People the wings; illuminate the stage
Where Cupid is to beat outnumbered Age.
Unruly poet that I am I fear
To write unaided will provoke a sneer:
'What, does she then elope, the dunderhead,
Before the household has retired to bed?'
Ah, no, the brainless poet's is th' offense,
The lyrical creature is devoid of stage-sense.
Although I have the actors talking prose
Whenever I nod someone picks a rose,
Or sings a song about the trials of Psyche
In a most impracticable high key.
Only the pompous doctor can I write,
For your absence makes me no less trite
Return, my Muse: solitude we'll barter
For our new Commedia dell 'Arte.
(*) Mr. Y _ _ _ _ _.