six
GPT-2 trained on the complete works of Alexander Pope using Max Woolf's Colab notebook. It seems to keep turning into Wallace Stevens.
The house is wild, the grounds are wild,
The sylvan scenes are wild,
Thei ravish’d, and i’ll do what ills will.
See vernal shoot, with purple ermine,
Swift to the stroke, and glide away,
With silver bows, and with silver arrows,
From the fair play of jays to the River.
In the midst of the park enter
Those bards that from the birth
Teach their sons to hide values,
To trust in a King, and to pray.
Let equanimity rule their heart,
And respect their country;
Nor for itself expose the State;
Nor for itself be made a pray;
Pray what you will for your own;
But know that you are making a friend:
And if he or she be prate,
As is man’s natural inclination,
Spread the greatest cheer by the means.
Know your friend, your confidante,
Your companion always, in his quest,
In all your ways ever to advance:
The joy never to be too wise;
Nor the greater joy to be too merry.
May he who in these matters can
Do more than his or her share deserve,
May he or she who in these acts excel,
Explain more fully the state of things,
And tell how each virtue makes a friend:
For if all men have reason to admire,
May not every man have a zeal to admire?
You ’ll say, ‘No trust in partial authorities,
Who sometimes err, and sometimes forgive;
Lest all be done by fools with kings in mind,
And all be done by fools with kings o’er.’
But trust in your own judgment, you ’ll say;
All is not 100 per cent. Can it for that
Be done with more than half the force of law?
My Lord, your being a King does not
Make all things inviolate, or all void of law?
And yet, yet let me be civil, and be frank,
Whate’er I’ll say, whatsoever I shall say;
For all my life (meaning ten years less than ten)
I have writ and spoken as man, and as my time.
I ’ll say (if half my words be correct)
All that can in any wise be confounded,
Is done, in due degree, to all intents and purposes,
By this and that; and not by a master secret;
As, if I confound the art of singing,
To hit is merely to hit; and to fit,
To move or not, according to the state;
All at variance, who choose the subject,
The town, or the court, or the pulpit, or the board,
Or in some private fit of pique, offend;
And pleas’d to correct, to justify,
By all the rules of rhetoric, and all the ways.
Let men be men, and let nature bear;
The man is but the equal of his song;
The line is measure not of stammer,
But of bends and shifts in the string;
The sound—not in tonic, but of throat;
Like chaff is tossed in the wind,
Like locusts in a field of locusts—
The Lordot is but the mingler of muck,
Divert with the milky sap, and with the straw.
Let earth, air, sea, air for ever be
One vast organism, and one in all
Great Nature; or, if two ways run,
One directs, but not directs with thee.
The rest, scattered about the wood,
On hanging baskets, or in jars, or jars;
Or hung with thread, or hanging with string,
In various forms of harness or of spaniel;
Or hung on hooks, or on hoops, or hoops;
Hang with fuls, or sink in pools,
In various draughts, or sink in floods;
Or, hung with sugar, or, hung with raisins,
Roll in the glitt’ring tide of a lover’s fire;
Hang with all that floats, or on dry land
In hanging baskets, or in jars, or jars;
All adieu, ye winds! and all hasten to shore;
Ye gentle breezes, and fresh blows, and smiles,
And all the happy note of life;
Ye breezes, and fresh breezes, and smiles, and breezes,
And the joyful note of a new year;
Ye peals of bells, and trumpets, and scolding horns,
And howlings of the wind, and howlings of the