An Unlikely Zendo

Patrick "Pat" O'Hara (born September 27, ) is a former coach and quarterback in the Arena Football League (AFL). He currently serves as the quarterback.

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But what renown th' hast given his worth, 'tis fit The world should render to thy hopeful wit, And with a welcome plaudit entertain This lovely issue of thy teeming brain. That their kind usage to this birth of thine May win so much upon thee, for each line Thou hast bequeath'd the world, thou'lt give her ten, And raise more high the glory of thy pen. Accomplish these our wishes, and then see How all that love the arts will honour thee. Friend, in the fair completeness of your play Y' have courted truth; in these few lines to say Something concerning it, that all may know I pay no more of praise than what I owe.

Tailors may boast Th' have gain'd by your young pen what they long lost By the old proverb, which says, Three to a man : But to your vindicating muse, that can Make one a man, and a man noble, they Must wreaths of bays as their due praises pay. Robert Davenport. Thy play I ne'er saw: what shall I say then? I in my vote must do as other men, And praise those things to all, which common fame Does boast of such a hopeful growing flame Which, in despite of flattery, shall shine, Till envy at thy glory do repine: And on Parnassus' cliffy top shall stand, Directing wand'ring wits to wish'd-for land; Like a beacon o' th' Muses' hill remain, That still doth burn, no lesser light retain; To show that other wits, compar'd with thee, Is but Rebellion i' th' high'st degree.

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For from thy labours thus much I do scan A tailor is ennobled to a man. To see a springot of thy tender age With such a lofty strain to word a stage; To see a tragedy from thee in print, With such a world of fine meanders in't, Puzzles my wond'ring soul; for there appears Such disproportion 'twixt thy lines and years, That when I read thy lines, methinks I see The sweet-tongued Ovid fall upon his knee, With parce precor every line and word Runs in sweet numbers of its own accord: But I am wonder-struck that all this while Thy unfeather'd quill should write a tragic style. This above all my admiration draws, That one so young should know dramatic laws.

The damask rose, that sprouts before the spring, Is fit for none to smell at but a king. Go on, sweet friend; I hope in time to see Thy temples rounded with the Daphnean tree. And if men ask who nurs'd thee, I'll say thus, It was the ambrosian spring of Pegasus. Robert Chamberlain. I will not praise thee, friend, nor is it fit, Lest I be said to flatter what y' have writ: For some will say I writ to applaud thee, That when I print, thou may'st do so for me. Faith, they're deceiv'd, thou justly claim'st thy bays: Virtue rewards herself; thy work's thy praise.

Kind friend, excuse me, that do thus intrude, Thronging thy volume with my lines so rude. Applause is needless here, yet this I owe, As due to th' Muses; thine ne'er su'd I know For hands, nor voice, nor pen, nor other praise Whatsoe'er by mortals us'd, thereby to raise An author's name eternally to bliss. Were't rightly scann'd alas! As if a poet's single work alone Wants power to lift him to the spangled throne Of highest Jove; or needs their lukewarm fires, To cut his way or pierce the circled spheres. Foolish presumption! Then ben't dismay'd, I know thy book will live, And deathless trophies to thy name shall give.

Who doubts, where Venus and Minerva meet In every line, how pleasantly they greet? Strewing thy paths with roses, red and white, To deck thy silver-streams of fluent wit; And entertain the graces of thy mind. O, may thy early head sweet shelter find Under the umbrage of those verdant bays, Ordain'd for sacred poesy's sweet lays! Such are thy lines, in such a curious dress, Compos'd so quaintly, that, if I may guess, None save thine own should dare t' approach the press. A sour and austere kind of men there be, That would outlaw the laws of poesy; And from a commonwealth's well-govern'd lists Some grave and too much severe Platonists Would exclude poets, and have enmity With the soul's freedom, ingenuity.

These are so much for wisdom, they forget That Heaven allow'th the use of modest wit.

These think the author of a jest alone Is the man that deserves damnation; Holding mirth vicious, and to laugh a sin: Yet we must give these cynics leave to grin. What will they think, when they shall see thee in The plains of fair Elysium? Amongst which thou shalt sit, and crowned thus, Shalt laugh at Cato and Democritus. Thus shall thy bays be superscrib'd: my pen Did not alone make plays, but also men. Bless me, you sacred Sisters! What a throng Of choice encomiums 's press'd?

What makes my sickly fancy hither hie Unless it be for shelter , when the eye Of each peculiar artist makes a quest After my slender judgment? But as the river of Athamas can fire The sullen wood, and make its flames aspire, So the infused comfort I receive By th' tie of friendship, prompts me to relieve My fainting spirits, and with a full sail Rush 'mongst your argosies; despite of hail Or storms of critics, friend, to thee I come: I know th' hast harbour, I defy much room: Besides, I'll pay thee for't in grateful verse, Since that thou art wit's abstract, I'll rehearse: Nothing shall wool your ears with a long phrase Of a sententious folly; for to raise Sad pyramids of flattery, that may be Condemn'd for the sincere prolixity.

Let envy turn her mantle, and expose Her rotten entrails to infect the rose, Or pine—like greenness of thy extant wit: Yet shall thy Homer's shield demolish it. Upon thy quill as on an eagle's wing, Thou shalt be led through th' air's sweet whispering: And with thy pen thou shalt engrave thy name Better than pencil in the list of fame.

In what a strange dilemma stood my mind, When first I saw the tailor, and did find It so well-fraught with wit! I wonder how you could, being so young, And teeming yet, encounter with so strong And firm a story; 'twould indeed have prov'd A subject for the wisest, that had lov'd To suck at Aganippe. But go on, My best of friends; and as you have begun With that is good, so let your after-times Transcendent be. Apollo he still shines On the best wits; and if a Momus chance On this thy volume scornfully to glance, Melpomene will defend, and you shall see, That virtue will at length make envy flee.

What need I strive to praise thy worthy frame, Or raise a trophy to thy lasting name? Were my bad wit with eloquence refin'd, When I have said my most, the most's behind. But that I might be known for one of them, Which do admire thy wit and love thy pen, I could not better show forth my good-will, Than to salute you with my virgin quill, And bring you something to adorn your head Among a throng of friends, who oft have read Your learned poems, and do honour thee And thy bright genius.

How like a curious tree Is thy sweet fancy, bearing fruit so rare The learned still will covet. Momus no share Shall have of it; but end his wretched days In grief, 'cause now he seeth th' art crown'd with bays.

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Robert Dodsley Quotes (Author of The Toy Shop () The King and the Miller of Mansfield)

A Cupid. King of Spain. Antonio , a count. Machiavel , a count. Scene— Seville. ACT I. Enter severally , Alerzo, Fulgentio, and Pandolpho. Signor Alerzo? Signors, well-met: The lazy morn has scarcely trimm'd herself To entertain the sun; she still retains The slimy tincture of the banish'd night: I hardly could discern you. But you appear fresh as a city bridegroom, That has sign'd his wife a warrant for the Grafting of horns; how fares Belinda After the weight of so much sin? Or an embroidered belt? Or perhaps a feather? Y' are merry.

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Come, be free, Leave modesty for women to gild Their pretty thriving art of plentitude, To enrich their husbands' brows with cornucopias. A soldier, and thus bashful! Had I the pox, good colonel, I should stride Far opener than I do; but pox o' the fashion! Count Antonio. Though he appear fresh as a bloom That newly kiss'd the sun, adorn'd with pearly Drops, flung from the hand of the rose-finger'd morn, Yet in his heart lives a whole host of valour.

He appears A second Mars. More powerful, since he holds wisdom And valour captive. Let us salute him. Rise from thy scorching den, thou soul of mischief!

My blood boils hotter than the poison'd flesh Of Hercules cloth'd in the Centaur's shirt: Swell me, revenge, till I become a hill, High as Olympus' cloud-dividing top; That I might fall, and crush them into air. I'll observe. Command, I prythee, all [16] This little world I'm master of contains, And be assur'd 'tis granted; I have a life, I owe to death; and in my country's cause I should—— Ful. Good sir, no more, This ungrateful land owes you too much already.

And you still bind it in stronger bonds. Your noble deeds that, like to thoughts, outstrip The fleeting clouds, dash all our hopes of payment: We are poor, but in unprofitable thanks; Nay, that cannot rehearse enough your merit. I dare not hear this; pardon, bashful ears, For suffering such a scarlet to o'erspread Your burning portals.

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Gentlemen, your discourses taste of court, They have a relish of known flattery; I must deny to understand their folly: Your pardon, I must leave you: Modesty commands. Your honour's vassals. O good colonel, be more a soldier, Leave compliments for those that live at ease, To stuff their table-books; and o'er a board, Made gaudy with some pageant, beside custards, Whose quaking strikes a fear into the eaters, Dispute 'em in a fashionable method. A soldier's language should be as his calling Rough, to declare he is a man of fire.


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Farewell without the straining of a sinew, No superstitious cringe! Is't not a hopeful lord? Nature to him has chain'd the people's hearts; Each to his saint offers a form of prayer For young Antonio. And in that loved name pray for the kingdom's good. Count Machiavel! Enter Machiavel from behind the hangings. Let's away. Heart, wilt not burst with rage, to see these slaves Fawn like to whelps on young Antonio, And fly from me as from infection?

Death, Confusion, and the list of all diseases, wait upon your lives Till you be ripe for hell, which when it gapes, May it devour you all: stay, Machi'vel, Leave this same idle chat, it becomes woman That has no strength, but what her tongue Makes a monopoly; be more a man, Think, think; in thy brain's mint Coin all thy thoughts to mischief: That may act revenge at full.

Plot, plot, tumultuous thoughts, incorporate; Beget a lump, howe'er deform'd, that may at length, Like to a cub lick'd by the careful dam, Become like to my wishes perfect vengeance.


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Antonio, ay, Antonio—nay, all, Rather than lose my will, shall headlong fall Into eternal ruin; my thoughts are high. Death, sit upon my brow; let every frown Banish a soul that stops me of a crown.