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Revision as of 03:29, 4 October 2009
23. Now in regard there have been many such, as well
among us as among the barbarians, who can bear with
those that reproach Venus that, being coupled and present
with Love, she becomes a hindrance of friendship?
Whereas any sober and considerate person may rather revile
the company of male with male, and justly call it intemperance
and lasciviousness,
- A vile affront to Nature, no effect
- Of lovely Venus or of chaste respect.
- A vile affront to Nature, no effect
And therefore, as for those that willingly prostitute their
bodies, we look upon them to be the most wicked and flagitious
persons in the world, void of fidelity, neither endued
with modesty nor any thing of friendship ; and but too
truly and really, according to Sophocles,
- They who ne'er had such friends as these,
- Believe their blessing double ;
- And they that have them, pray the Gods
- To rid them of the trouble.•
- They who ne'er had such friends as these,
And as for those who, not being by nature lewd and wicked, were circumvented and forced to prostitute themselves, there are no men whom these always look upon with greater suspicion and more perfect hatred than those that deluded and nattered them into so vile an act, and they bitterly revenge themselves when they find an opportunity. For Crateas killed Archelaus, who had rid him in his youth ; and Pytholaus slew Alexander of Pherae. Periander tyrant of the Ambraciotes asked his minion, whether he were not yet with child ; which the lad took so heinously that he stabbed him.
- Plutarch's Lives (De Amores) By Plutarch, William Watson Goodwin p.304
Oh Who Is That Young Sinner
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.
'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.
Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.
Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.
- A.E. Housman
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