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To Be, or Not to Be
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by William
Shakespeare's Cat
To go outside, and
there perchance to stay
Or to remain within: that is the question:
Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer
The cuffs and buffets of inclement weather
That Nature rains on those who roam abroad,
Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet,
And so by dozing melt the solid hours
That clog the clock’s bright gears with sullen time
And stall the dinner bell. To
sit, to stare
Outdoors, and by a stare to seem to state
A wish to venture forth without delay,
Then when the portal’s opened up, to stand
As if transfixed by doubt. To
prowl; to sleep;
To choose not knowing when we may once more
Our readmittance gain: aye, there’s the hairball;
For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob,
Or work a lock or slip a window-catch,
And going out and coming in were made
As simple as the breaking of a bowl,
What cat would bear the household’s petty plagues,
The cook’s well-practised kicks, the butler’s broom,
The infant’s careless pokes, the tickled ears,
The trampled tail, and all the daily shocks
That fur is heir to, when, of his own will,
He might his exodus or entrance make
With a mere mitten? Who would
spaniels fear,
Or strays trespassing from a neighbour’s yard,
But that the dread of our unheeded cries
And scratches at a barricaded door
No claw to open up, dispels our nerve
And makes us rather bear our humans’ faults
Than run away to un guessed miseries?
Thus caution doth make house cats of us all;
And thus the bristling hair of resolution
Is softened up with the pale brush of thought,
And since our choices hinge on weighty things,
We pause upon the threshold of decision.
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by William Shakespeare
To be, or not to be - that is the
question;
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep -
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams my come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardles bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death -
The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns - puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’ver with the pale cast of thought.
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry
And lost the name of action. |
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by
William Blake’s Cat
Mongrel! Mongrel!
Barking blight,
Bane upon my yard at night;
What infernal hand or eye,
Could frame thy vile anatomy?
In what stagnant
sump or pool
Steep’d the slobber of thy drool?
What the wrath dare he incur?
What the hand dare weave thy fur?
Who the crackpot,
who the nut
Would wish to make an ugly mutt?
And when thy heart began to tick,
What weird hand withheld the brick?
Where’s the crank
who loos’d thy chain?
From what peapod came thy brain?
What warp’d artist shaped thy face?
Whose foul crime the canine race?
When the cats gave
up their prowls,
And cowered from the hellhound’s howls:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Flea make thee?
Mongrel! Mongrel!
Barking blight,
Bane upon my yard at night;
What infernal hand or eye,
Could frame thy vile anatomy?
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The Tyger
by William Blake
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their
spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? |
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I Wandered Lonely as a
Cloud
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By William
Wordworth’s Cat
I wandered hungry as
a hawk
That floats on high o’er hills and dales,
When all at once I stopped to stalk
A clutch of little cottontails;
Beside the lake, among the reeds,
Quavering and squealing in the weeds.
As featherbrained as
the bugs that land
And dally in my dinner bowl,
They clung together in a band
Around the bottom of a hole:
A dozen saw I at a glance,
Frozen with fear in terror’s trance.
And though they did
not dance or play
but simply sat and stare at me,
A kitten could not but be gay,
In such delicious company:
I ate – and ate – the whole sweet pack.
Oh what a tasty rabbit snack!
And oft, when on my
couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
That conjures up a favorite food;
And then into a ball I scrunch,
And dream about that bunny lunch.
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by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crow,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but
they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth this show to me had brought:
For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. |
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by
George Gordon, Lord Byron’s Cat
She walks in
booties, like a sprite
With pixie feet and fairy toes;
Her paws on ice will ne’er alight
Nor feel the chill of frigid snows;
And all the rays of winter’s light
Shine on her collar’s satin bows.
And from her soft
enchanted fur
Exudes the scent of sweet shampoo
And precious oils distilled from myrrh
That give her hair its magic hue:
I long to hear her charming purr,
And share the music of her mew.
But as I watch her
take the air,
My spellbound vision stars to fade;
I feel at once a dark despair;
My feline heart is sore dismay’d;
For not content to make her fair,
Her doting owners had her spay’d!
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She Walks in Beauty
by George Gordon, Lord Byron
She walks in beauty, like the
night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the
less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softy lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that
brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent |
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Sonnet XLIII, From the
Portuguese
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by Elizabeth
Browning’s Cat
How do I break thee?
Let me count the ways.
I break thee if thou art at any height
My paw can reach, when, smarting from some slight,
I sulk, or have one of my crazy days.
I break thee with an accidental graze
Or twitch of tail, if I should take a fright.
I break the out of pure and simple spite
The way I broke the jar of mayonnaise.
I break thee if a bug upon thee sits.
I break thee if I’m in a playful mood,
And then I wrestle with the shiny bits.
I break thee if I do not like my food.
And if someone thy shards together fits,
I break thee once again when thou art glued.
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by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count
the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death. |
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By Robert
Herrick’s Cat
Get ye a human while
ye may,
When you are still a kitten,
For by a cat too long a stray
Men’s hearts are seldom smitten.
The master of a cozy
house
May wed a maid with puppies;
Or set a trap to catch that mouse,
Or buy a bowl of guppies.
Cold rains will soon
the summer drown,
and ice will crack the willow;
And though the snow is soft as down,
It makes a chilly pillow.
Then hands that
would have stroked your head,
When you came in from prowling,
Will hurl at you a boot instead
To halt your awful howling.
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To the Virgins, to Make
Much of Time
by Robert Herrick
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the
sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the
first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
Bur being spent, the worst, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your
time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry. |
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By Rudyard
Kipling’s Cat
If you can disappear
when all about you
Are madly searching for you everywhere,
And then just when they start to leave without you,
Turn up as if you always were right there;
If you can shed your hair in any season,
And cough up half that you devour,
And rush from room to room without a reason,
Then sit and stare at nothing for an hour;
If you can kill the
baby birds that twitter,
But not the voles that eat bulbs by the score;
If you can scatter heaps of kitty litter,
Yet still leave droppings strewn across the floor;
If you can tear the precious rug to tatters,
But keep your scratching post unmarked by claw;
If you can play with china till it shatters,
But never touch your cat toys with a paw;
If you can try to
nap where someone’s sitting,
Although there is another empty chair,
Then rub against his ankle without quitting
Until he rises from your favorite lair;
If you can whine and whimper by a portal
Until the bolted door is opened wide,
Then howl as if you’ve got a wound that’s mortal
Until he comes and lets you back inside;
If you can give a
guest a nasty spiking,
But purr when you are petted by a thief;
If you can find the food not to your liking
Because they put some cheese in with the beef;
If you can leave no proffered hand unbitten,
And pay no heed to any rule or ban,
Then all will say you are a Cat, my kitten,
And – which is more – you’ll make a fool of Man!
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If -
by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all
about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make
dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thought your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build them up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all
your winnings,
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And loose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: „Hold on!“
If you can talk with crowds and
keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - not lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And - which is more - you’ll be a Man, my son! |
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by Robert Frost’s
Cat
Whose chair this is
I by now know.
He’s somewhere in the forest though;
He will not mind me sitting here
A place I’m not supposed to go.
He really is a
little queer
To leave his fire’s cozy cheer
And ride out by the frozen lake
The coldest evening of the year.
To love the snow it
takes a flake:
The chill that makes your footpads ache,
The drifts too high to lurk or creep,
The icicles that drip and break.
His chair is comfy,
soft and deep.
But I have got an urge to leap,
And mice to catch before I sleep.
And mice to catch before I sleep.
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Stopping by Woods on a
Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I
know
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it
queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and
deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. |
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by Stephen Crane’s
Cat
A man said to the
universe,
“Sir, I exist!”
”Excellent,” replied the universe,
”I’ve been looking for someone
To take care of my cats.”
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A Man Said
by Stephen Crane
A man said to the universe:
„Sir, I exist!“
„However,“ replied the universe,
„The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.“ |
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