Template:Dsh a lot of learning: Difference between revisions

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{{script|Triago}}: “A little learning is a dangerous thing” — <br>
{{dia|Queen|Hark: a clammy ditch. How deep!}}
{{script|Nuncle}}: Not half so dangerous as a lot. <br>
{{dia|Nuncle|And yet with our temper’d syllogies<br>
{{script|Triago}}: ’Tis by a Pope, you know. <br>
We dig it deeper by the minute. }}
{{script|Nuncle}}: Not the one in Rome. <br>
{{dia|Queen|And behold: fair Triago —}}
Thou art drunk on waters of the Pierian spring:<br>
{{dia|Nuncle|Of open’d mouth and mind,<br>
An hypoxic draft that suffocates the brain,<br>
Well-endowed to drop right in it.}}
So deep no shaft of light can bring thee round again.<br>
 
{{script|Triago}}: Mine own conjecture comports a grain of truth  <br>
''Enter {{capsital|Triago}} popping his head out of the ditch muttering to himself''<br>
As pure and true and golden—<br>
 
{{script|Nuncle}}: And yet no more roundly causative
{{dia|Triago|Who wouldst die, wouldst die therein about it?}}
Than the month-past flappings of a Latin papillon <br>
{{dia|Queen|How now, Triago?<br>
Of a brewing Filipino typhoon. <br>
How fares thy latest batty postulation?}}
{{script|Triago}}: Yet am I here caught, a spider’s prey <br>
{{dia|Triago|Most promising, Majesty.<br>
I have it ratified that wren’s eggs,<Br>
Broken thus, betray yet unacknowledged villainy.}}
{{dia|Queen|How so, Professor?}}
{{dia|Triago|Experimental rigour, Ma’am. Nothing less:<Br>
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>
Wrestling ’gainst the sticky silk<br>
And by mine own dim efforts<br>
And by mine own dim efforts<br>
Binding e’er further to my criminous fate.<br>
Binding e’er further to my criminous fate.<br>
In this sinking oubliette of mine devise <br>
In this sinking oubliette of mine devise<br>
Am I enchain’d: alack! There is no gate.<noinclude>
Am I enchain’d: alack! There is no gate.}}<noinclude>
 
{{Script|Queen}}: How now Triago. <Br>
How fares thy latest batty postulation?
{{script|Triago}}: Most promising, Majesty.<Br>
I have it upon good science that wren’s eggs,<Br>
Broken thus, may uncover villainy in the hearts of those around.<Br>
{{Script|Queen}}: How so, professor?<Br>
{{Script|Triago}}: Experimental rigour, ma’am. Nothing less:<Br>
A hundred men, detained at your pleasure <Br>And bid each one strike an egg against a pan. <Br>
Each wren’s egg broke. Not one exception!<Br>
{{Script|Nuncle}}: Pray, give me air!
{{Script|Queen}}: What provenance the eggs?<Br>
{{Script|Triago}}: I bid that each man poached one from the mother’s nest:<Br>
Insurance that their hearts were indubitably black.<Br>
{{Script|Queen}}: Poor Mrs. Wren must be furious. <Br>
{{Script|Nuncle}}: Not quite so wild as is this correlation spurious.<Br>
 
{{Script|Queen}}: Is it our plight? So to suffer fools? <br>
Should Cipolla’s curse beset me round with pains?<br>
{{Script|Nuncle}}: He who suffers most sees least <br>
But suffers not so much from fools as brains. <br>
 
{{Script|Queen}}: Hark: a clammy well. Its temper’d syllogies grow deeper by the minute.  <Br>
And behold: fair Triago —<br>
{{Script|Nuncle}}: Of open mouth and mind, well endowed to drop right in it. <Br>
{{Script|Herculio}}: is this the abyss you wouldst die in?
 


Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts,<br>
{{dia|Queen|Is it our plight? So to suffer fools?<br>
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts;<br>
Should Cipolla’s curse beset me round with pains?}}
While from the bounded level of our mind<br>
{{dia|Nuncle|He who suffers most sees least<br>
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind
But suffers not so much from fools as brains.}}
<br>
{{dia|Herculio|is this the abyss you wouldst die in?}}</noinclude>
But, more advanced, behold with strange surprise<br>
New distant scenes of endless science rise!<br>
So pleased at first the towering Alps we try,<br>
Mount o’er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;<br>
The eternal snows appear already past,<br>
And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;<br>
But those attained, we tremble to survey<br>
The growing labours of the lengthened way;<br>
The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes,<br>
Hills peep o’er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!</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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