Template:Dsh a lot of learning: Difference between revisions

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A lot of learning is a dangerous thing; <br>
{{dia|Queen|Hark: a clammy ditch. How deep!}}
Drink deep, and drown in waters of the Pierian spring:<br>
{{dia|Nuncle|And yet with our temper’d syllogies<br>
Thy rare-disturb’d hypoxic waters suffocate the brain,<br>
We dig it deeper by the minute. }}
Till no shafts of light can bring us round again.<br><noinclude>
{{dia|Queen|And behold: fair Triago —}}
Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts,<br>
{{dia|Nuncle|Of open’d mouth and mind,<br>
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts;<br>
Well-endowed to drop right in it.}}
While from the bounded level of our mind<br>
 
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind,<br>
''Enter {{capsital|Triago}} popping his head out of the ditch muttering to himself''<br>
But, more advanced, behold with strange surprise<br>
 
New distant scenes of endless science rise!<br>
{{dia|Triago|Who wouldst die, wouldst die therein about it?}}
So pleased at first the towering Alps we try,<br>
{{dia|Queen|How now, Triago?<br>
Mount o’er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;<br>
How fares thy latest batty postulation?}}
The eternal snows appear already past,<br>
{{dia|Triago|Most promising, Majesty.<br>
And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;<br>
I have it ratified that wren’s eggs,<Br>
But those attained, we tremble to survey<br>
Broken thus, betray yet unacknowledged villainy.}}
The growing labours of the lengthened way;<br>
{{dia|Queen|How so, Professor?}}
The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes,<br>
{{dia|Triago|Experimental rigour, Ma’am. Nothing less:<Br>
Hills peep o’er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!</noinclude?
A hundred men, detained at your pleasure, were took<br>
And each one bid to strike an egg against a pan.<br>
Every wren’s egg broke. The lot. Not one exception!}}
{{dia|Nuncle|Pray, give me air!}}
{{dia|Queen|What provenance the eggs?}}
{{dia|Triago|I bid each man poach one from the mother’s nest:<br>
Insurance that their hearts were indubitably black.}}
{{dia|Queen|Poor Mrs. Wren must be furious!}}
{{dia|Nuncle|Not quite so wild as is this correlation spurious.}}
{{dsh a little learning capsule}}
{{dia|Triago|''(aside)'' Yet am I here caught, a spider’s prey<br>
Wrestling ’gainst the sticky silk<br>
And by mine own dim efforts<br>
Binding e’er further to my criminous fate.<br>
In this sinking oubliette of mine devise<br>
Am I enchain’d: alack! There is no gate.}}<noinclude>
 
{{dia|Queen|Is it our plight? So to suffer fools?<br>
Should Cipolla’s curse beset me round with pains?}}
{{dia|Nuncle|He who suffers most sees least<br>
But suffers not so much from fools as brains.}}
{{dia|Herculio|is this the abyss you wouldst die in?}}</noinclude>

Latest revision as of 10:46, 11 September 2024

Queen: Hark: a clammy ditch. How deep!

Nuncle: And yet with our temper’d syllogies
We dig it deeper by the minute.

Queen: And behold: fair Triago —

Nuncle: Of open’d mouth and mind,
Well-endowed to drop right in it.

Enter Triago popping his head out of the ditch muttering to himself

Triago: Who wouldst die, wouldst die therein about it?

Queen: How now, Triago?
How fares thy latest batty postulation?

Triago: Most promising, Majesty.
I have it ratified that wren’s eggs,
Broken thus, betray yet unacknowledged villainy.

Queen: How so, Professor?

Triago: Experimental rigour, Ma’am. Nothing less:
A hundred men, detained at your pleasure, were took
And each one bid to strike an egg against a pan.
Every wren’s egg broke. The lot. Not one exception!

Nuncle: Pray, give me air!

Queen: What provenance the eggs?

Triago: I bid each man poach one from the mother’s nest:
Insurance that their hearts were indubitably black.

Queen: Poor Mrs. Wren must be furious!

Nuncle: Not quite so wild as is this correlation spurious.

Triago: Ho, Ho.
Let not thy witty fool, nor his foolish wit
Besmirch the fruited science of th’ academy.
“A little learning is a dangerous thing” —

Nuncle: Yet not half so dangerous as a lot.

Triago: — So sayeth Pope, you know.

Nuncle: But not the one in Rome:

Queen: Good ser knight: art thou drunk upon the Pierian spring:
A hypoxic draft that suffocates the brain,
So deep no shaft of light can bring it round again?

Triago: My conjecture comports a grain of truth
As pure and true and golden—

Nuncle: — but yet no more roundly causative
Than are the month-past flappings of a Latin papillon
Upon a brewing Filipino typhoon.

Triago: (aside) Yet am I here caught, a spider’s prey
Wrestling ’gainst the sticky silk
And by mine own dim efforts
Binding e’er further to my criminous fate.
In this sinking oubliette of mine devise
Am I enchain’d: alack! There is no gate.

Queen: Is it our plight? So to suffer fools?
Should Cipolla’s curse beset me round with pains?

Nuncle: He who suffers most sees least
But suffers not so much from fools as brains.

Herculio: is this the abyss you wouldst die in?

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