Post by urthona2 on Jul 4, 2013 12:52:49 GMT -8
the ego separates everything into good and bad; 90 % of our life gets pushed down just to keep us locked down into the life of custom--so the ego pushes down everything that would destroy our personal selfish little heaven but then when we reach a certain point and another part of the mind discovers that we have pushed down too much of ourselves with the things we couldnt bear to look at and begins pushing the repressed things into consciousness
R_o we live youre conscious urthona
THE RELAPSE.
Lorenzo! to recriminate is just.
Fondness for fame is avarice of air.
I grant the man is vain who writes for praise.
Praise no man e’er deserved, who sought no more.
As just thy second charge. I grant the Muse
Has often blush’d at her degenerate sons,
Retain’d by sense to plead her filthy cause;
To raise the low, to magnify the mean,
And subtilize the gross into refined:
As if to magic numbers’ powerful charm 10
’Twas given, to make a civet of their song
Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume.
Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the brute,
And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause.
We wear the chains of pleasure and of pride.
These share the man; and these distract him too;
Draw different ways, and clash in their commands.
Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars;
But pleasure, lark-like, nests upon the ground. 20
Joys shared by brute creation, pride resents; 21
Pleasure embraces: man would both enjoy,
And both at once: a point so hard, how gain!
But, what can’t wit, when stung by strong desire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprise.
Since joys of sense can’t rise to reason’s taste;
In subtle sophistry’s laborious forge,
Wit hammers out a reason new, that stoops
To sordid scenes, and meets them with applause.
Wit calls the graces the chaste zone to loose; 30
Nor less than a plump god to fill the bowl:
A thousand phantoms, and a thousand spells,
A thousand opiates scatters, to delude,
To fascinate, inebriate, lay asleep,
And the fool’d mind delightfully confound.
www.trans4mind.u-net.com/transform2.2.htm
R_o we live youre conscious urthona
THE RELAPSE.
Lorenzo! to recriminate is just.
Fondness for fame is avarice of air.
I grant the man is vain who writes for praise.
Praise no man e’er deserved, who sought no more.
As just thy second charge. I grant the Muse
Has often blush’d at her degenerate sons,
Retain’d by sense to plead her filthy cause;
To raise the low, to magnify the mean,
And subtilize the gross into refined:
As if to magic numbers’ powerful charm 10
’Twas given, to make a civet of their song
Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume.
Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the brute,
And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause.
We wear the chains of pleasure and of pride.
These share the man; and these distract him too;
Draw different ways, and clash in their commands.
Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars;
But pleasure, lark-like, nests upon the ground. 20
Joys shared by brute creation, pride resents; 21
Pleasure embraces: man would both enjoy,
And both at once: a point so hard, how gain!
But, what can’t wit, when stung by strong desire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprise.
Since joys of sense can’t rise to reason’s taste;
In subtle sophistry’s laborious forge,
Wit hammers out a reason new, that stoops
To sordid scenes, and meets them with applause.
Wit calls the graces the chaste zone to loose; 30
Nor less than a plump god to fill the bowl:
A thousand phantoms, and a thousand spells,
A thousand opiates scatters, to delude,
To fascinate, inebriate, lay asleep,
And the fool’d mind delightfully confound.
www.trans4mind.u-net.com/transform2.2.htm