25 Examples of Lyrical Genre

The lyric is one of the groups in which literature has historically been organized, along with the narrative and the dramatic. It brings together the texts in which the author expresses feelings, emotions or subjective thoughts and most of the works are written in verse.

Its name refers to ancient Greece, where narratives in verse were sung before an audience and were accompanied by the music of the lyre. The most common form of composition is poem.

Characteristics of the lyrical genre

Works of the lyrical genre:

Subgenres of the lyric

The writings in verse can, in turn, be classified into two large groups. Depending on the extent of your stanzasThey can belong to the major genera or to the minor genera.

older genres

Examples of the lyrical genre

SONG

1. Gentle lady, I see
   when you move your sweet light eyes
   that the path of heaven shows me;
   and, by long custom,
   in them, where Love only recreation,
   almost in the light the heart is shown.
   This vision to do well trains me
   and the final glory represents me;
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   only she of the people shells me.
   And never human language
   she can tell what makes me feel
   this double star
   when winter frosts the meadow argenta
   and when the whole field turns green,
   as in the time of my first eagerness.

I think: if up there,
from where the engine of the stars
show wanted his works on earth,
there are also so beautiful,
break the prison that captivates me
and the road to immortal life closes me.
Then I turn to my continuous war
Giving thanks to the day I was born
Well, it fit me so well and such benefit,
and to her that my chest
raised love; well before chosen
I left hateful and serious,
and since that day I have been pleased
filling with a high and soft concept
the chest she holds the key to.

Never said what a pleasure
gave Love or gave capricious Fortune
to him who was favored among them,
that I for a runaway
look do not exchange, in which it is born
my peace as from the root of a tree born.
Oh ye who have been from heaven
sparkle in which that joy ignites more,
that sweetly burns and destroys me;
how she gets lost and runs away
all other light where yours shines,
so to my soul,
when so much sweetness in her turns on,
all good, every idea is useless
and only there with you Love grows.

How much sweetness in frank
lover's chest was, together,
It's nothing compared to what I feel
when you softly
sometime between the beautiful black and white
you return the light that gives happy Love;
and I know that, from the very birth,
to my imperfect, to my contrary luck,
this remedy warned the sky.
Offense makes me the veil
and the hand that crosses, giving death,
between my very narrow
and the eyes, through which it pours
the great desire that vents the chest,
which, as you vary, is counterfeit.

Well I see and I dislike
that my natural gift is not worth everything,
nor does it make me worthy of the look I await,
I strive to be the way
that more to the high hope fits,
and to the gentle fire in which everything burns.
If to the good light and on the contrary slow,
can you make me the study that I undertook
despiser of what the world loves,
maybe it brings fame
in the benign judgment of her to find could,
And relief like that is enough,
because from no other place the soul calls,
turn to look at her sweet and trembling,
final consolation of the courteous lover.

Song, you have a sister in front of you
and already the other arriving here I perceive,
luckily I write even more paper.

Francesco Petrarca

1. Three morels make me fall in love in Jaén,
   Axa and Fatima and Marien.

Three morphs so garridas
they were going to pick olives,
and they found them caught in Jaén,
Axa and Fatima and Marien.

And they found them caught,
and they became faint
and the lost colors in Jaén
Axa and Fatima and Marien.

Three moricas so lush
three moricas so lush,
they were going to pick apples to Jaén,
Axa and Fatima and Marien.

at the rose fountain
the girl and the maid wash.

At the source of clear water
with her hands they wash the face
he to her and she to him,
the girl and the maid wash.
At the fountain of the rose bush,
the girl and the maid wash

inside the orchard
I will die.
Inside the rosebush
kill me 'have.

I was, my mother,
the roses to pick;
I found my loves
inside the orchard.
inside the rosebush
kill me 'have.

loneliness I have from you,
my land where I was born.

If I died without luck,
bury me in the high sierra,
why not miss the earth
my body in the grave;
and in high mountains,
to see if I'll see from there

The lands where I was born.
loneliness I have from you,
oh land where I was born.

Anonymous (15th/16th century)

1. Leave by shadow or sun I never see you
   your veil, madam,
   after you are from the knowing desire
   That separates another desire from my chest.

While I kept the thought hidden
that death in desire gave my mind
I saw your gesture tinged with mercy;
But when Love showed you clearly,
was the hair covered at the time
and the honest hidden loving look.

What I most desired in you is deposed to me;
this is how the veil treats me,
that for my death, now to the heat, now to the ice
of such beautiful eyes covers the twinkling.

Francesco Petrarca

ANTHEM

1. "Hymn on the Nativity of the Virgin Mary"

Today a clear star is born,
so divine and heavenly,
that, with being a star, is such,
that the sun itself rises from it.

From Ana and Joaquín, east
of that divine star,
clear and dignified light comes out
to be eternally pure;
the clearest and most beautiful dawn
she can't be the same
that, with being a star, is such,
that the sun itself is born from it.

She does not match any light
of how many embroider the sky,
because it is the humble ground
from her feet the white moon:
born on the ground so beautiful
and with light so heavenly,
that, with being a star, is such,
that the sun itself is born from it.

Glory to the Father, and glory to the Son,
Glory to the Holy Spirit,
forever and ever. Amen

1. "Hymn to the stars" by Francisco de Quevedo

To you, stars,
take flight my fearful pen,
from the pool of light, rich sparks;
lights that ignite sad and painful
to the funeral of the deceased day,
orphan of its light, the cold night;

golden Army,
that by marching sapphire campaigns,
you guard the throne of the eternal choir
with various militating squads;
Divine Argos of crystal and fire,
through whose eyes the blind world watches;

enlightened signs
that, with a chattering and eloquent flame,
by the mute silence spread,
in the shade you serve as a fiery voice;
pomp that gives the night to her dresses,
letters of light, lit mysteries;

of the sad darkness
precious jewels, and from the icy dream
finery, which in competition with the sun dresses;
demure Lover Spies,
light sources to animate the floor,
bright flowers from the garden of heaven,

you from the moon
dazzling family, clear nymphs,
Whose footsteps carry Fortune,
with whose movements he changes faces,
arbiters of peace and war,
that, in the absence of the sun, you rule the earth;

you, lucky
dispensers, tutelary lights
that you give life, that you bring death near,
changing countenance, places;
llamas, who speak with learned movements,
whose tremulous rays are accents;

you, who, angry,
to the thirst of the furrows and sown
you deny the drink, or already burned
you give ashes the grass to the cattle,
and if you look benign and merciful,
the sky is farmer for the people;

you, whose laws
keep time observant everywhere,
threats from princes and kings,
if Saturn, Jove or Mars aborts you;
you're already going, or you're already ahead
by lubricious paths wandering bush,

if you loved in life
and already in the firmament you are nailed,
because the pain of love is never forgotten,
and you still sigh in transformed signs,
with Amaryllis, nymph the most beautiful,
stars, order it to have a star.

If one of you
of her watched over her delivery and birth
and she took care of her from the cradle,
dispensing her action, her movement,
ask for it, stars, to whatever,
That I even tilt her to see me.

I, meanwhile, unleashed
in smoke, rich breath of Pancaya,
I will do that, pilgrim and scorched,
in search of you through the air go;
I will rescue my lyre from the sun
and I'll start singing dying the day.

the dark birds,
that silence embarrasses with moaning,
flying clumsy and singing serious,
more omens than tones to the ear,
to flatter my longings and my sorrows,
and they will be my muses, and my sirens.

1. Mexican to the war cry
   The steel prepares and the bridon;
   And let the earth tremble in its centers
   To the loud roar of the cannon.

I
Cina Oh Homeland! your olive temples
Of peace the divine archangel,
That in heaven your eternal destiny
By the finger of God he was written.
But if I dare a strange enemy
Desecrate your soil with his plant,
Think Oh beloved country! than heaven
With each son he gave you a soldier.

II
In bloody combat you saw them
For your love throbbing her breasts,
Face the shrapnel serene
And death or glory seek.
If the memory of ancient deeds
of your children inflames the mind,
The laurels of triumph your forehead
They will return immortal to adorn.

III
Like the holm oak struck by lightning
It collapses to the deep torrent,
Discord defeated, impotent,
At the feet of the archangel fell.
No more of your children the blood
It spills into the strife of brothers;
Just find the steel in your hands
Who your sacred name insulted.

IV
Of the immortal warrior of Zempoala
The terrible sword defends you,
And he holds his invincible arm
Your sacred tricolor banner.
He will be from the happy Mexican
In peace and in war the caudillo,
Cause he knew his guns shine
Circulate in the fields of honor.

v
War, war without truce to the one who tries
Of the homeland stain the coats of arms!,
War, war! the patriotic banners
In the waves of blood soak.
War, war! in the mountains, in the valley,
The hideous cannons thunder
And the sonorous echoes resonate
With the voices of ¡Union! Liberty!

SAW
Before, Homeland, let your children be defenseless
Bend your neck under the yoke,
Your fields with blood are watered,
His foot was stamped on blood.
And your temples, palaces and towers
They collapse with a horrid crash,
And its ruins exist saying:
Of a thousand heroes the homeland was here.

7th
Yes to the fight against enemy host
The warrior horn summons us,
From Iturbide the sacred flag
Mexicans! brave keep going
And to the fierce bridons serve them
The expired carpet banners;
The laurels of triumph give shade
At the head of the brave champion.

viii
Return haughty to the patriotic homes
The warrior to count the victory of him,
Bearing the palms of glory
That he knew how to conquer in the fight.
They will turn their bloody laurels
In garlands of myrtles and roses,
May the love of daughters and wives
He also knows how to reward the brave.

IX
And the one that to the blow of burning shrapnel
Of the Homeland in the aras succumbs,
He will get in reward a tomb
Where the light shines with glory.
And from Iguala he teaches her dear
To his bloody linked sword,
Of immortal laurel crowned
He will form the cross from his grave.

X
Homeland! Homeland! your children swear to you
Exhale your breath on your altar,
If the bugle with its bellicose accent
Calls them to struggle with bravery.
For you the olive garlands!
A memory for them of glory!
A laurel for you of victory!
A sepulcher for them of honor!

"National anthem of Mexico"

ODE

1. "Ode to the flower of Gnido" by Garcilaso de la Vega

«If from my low lyre
so much could the sound that in a moment
appease the anger
of the spirited wind
and the fury of the sea and the movement;

and in rough mountains
with the soft song it softened
the wild vermin,
the trees move
and to the confusion they trujiese,

don't think that sung
would be from me, beautiful flower of Gnido,
the fierce angry Mars,
converted to death,
of dust and blood and stained sweat;

nor those captains
on sublime wheels placed,
for whom the Germans,
the fierce neck tied,
and the French go domesticated;

but only that one
strength of your beauty would be sung,
and sometimes with her
would also be noticed
the roughness with which you are armed:

and how by yourself,
and for your great value and beauty
turned into viola,
cries his misfortune
the wretched lover in your figure.”

1. "Ode to Joy" by Pablo Neruda

JOY
green leaf
window fall,
lower case
clarity
new born,
sound elephant,
dazzling
currency,
sometimes
crisp Blast,
but
rather
standing bread,
hope fulfilled,
developed duty.
I disdained you, joy.
I was ill advised.
Moon
He led me down her path.
the ancient poets
they lent me glasses
and next to everything
a dark nimbus
I put,
on the flower a black crown,
on the beloved mouth
a sad kiss
Its still early.
Let me repent.
I thought that only
if it burned
my heart
the bush of torment,
if the rain wet
my dress
in the region of Cardena del Luto,
if it closed
eyes to the rose
and touched the wound,
if I shared all the pains,
I helped the men.
I wasn't fair.
I messed up my steps
and today I call you, joy.

like the earth
are
necessary.

like fire
sustain
the homes.

like bread
you are pure

Like the water of a river
you are sound

like a bee
you spread honey flying

Joy,
I was a taciturn young man
I found your hair
scandalous

It wasn't true, I knew
when in my chest
she unleashed the waterfall on her.

today, joy,
found on the street
away from all books,
accompany me:

with you
I want to go from house to house,
I want to go from town to town,
from flag to flag.
You are not only for me.
We will go to the islands
to the seas
We will go to the mines
to the woods.
Not just lonely lumberjacks,
poor laundresses
or bristling, august
stonecutters,
they will receive me with your clusters,
but the congregated,
those gathered,
the unions of sea or wood,
the brave boys
in his fight.

With you around the world!
With my song!
With the flight ajar
of the star,
and with joy
of the foam!

I will comply with all
because I should
to all my joy.

Don't be surprised because I want
deliver to men
the gifts of the earth,
because I learned fighting
which is my earthly duty
spread joy.
And I fulfill my destiny with my song.

1. Translation of "Ode I of Anacreon" by Nicasio Álvarez de Cienfuegos

Loar would love Cadmus,
I would like to sing to Atridas;
but only loves sound
the strings of my lyre.
Another give me, and sing
of Alcides the fatigues;
but also answer
love, love, the lyre.
Heroes, goodbye; is strength
May an eternal voucher tell you.
What can I do, if loves
sing, and no more, my lyre?

ELEGY

1. "On the Death of a Son" by Miguel de Unamuno

Hug me, my love, she has died on us
the fruit of love;
hold me, desire is covered
in a groove of pain.

On the bone of that lost good,
that he went all out,
the cradle will roll of the well-born,
from which he is to come.

1. "Uninterrupted Elegy" by Octavio Paz

Today I remember the dead of my house.
We never forget the first death,
even if he dies of lightning, so fast
that does not reach the bed or the oil paintings.
I hear the cane hesitating on a step,
the body that takes hold in a sigh,
the door that opens, the dead that enters.
From a door to die there is little space
and there is hardly time to sit,
raise your face, see the time
and find out: a quarter past eight.

Today I remember the dead of my house.
The one that died night after night
and it was a long farewell,
a train that never leaves, his agony.
greed of the mouth
in the thread of a suspended sigh,
eyes that don't close and beckon
and wander from the lamp to my eyes,
fixed gaze that embraces another,
alien, who suffocates in the embrace
and at last he escapes and sees from the shore
how the soul sinks and loses body
and he can't find eyes to cling to...
And he invited me to die that look?
Maybe we die just because no one
wants to die with us, nobody
he wants to look us in the eye.

Today I remember the dead of my house.
The one who left for a few hours
and no one knows into what silence he entered.
After dinner, every night,
the colorless pause that gives into the void
or the endless sentence that hangs in the middle
of the spider's thread of silence
They open a corridor for the one who returns:
his footsteps sound, he goes up, stops...
And someone between us rises
and he closes the door well.
But he, there on the other side, insists.
He lurks in every gap, in the folds,
he wanders among the yawns, the outskirts.
Although we close doors, he insists.

Today I remember the dead of my house.
Lost faces on my forehead, faces
without eyes, fixed eyes, emptied,
Do I look for my secret in them,
the god of blood that my blood moves,
the god of yelo, the god that devours me?
Your silence is a mirror of my life,
in my life his death is prolonged:
I am the final mistake of his mistakes.

Today I remember the dead of my house.
The dissipated thought, the act
dissipated, the names scattered
(gaps, nulls, holes
that stubbornly digs the memory),
the dispersion of the encounters,
the self, its abstract wink, shared
always for another (the same) me, the anger,
desire and its masks, the viper
buried, the slow erosions,
the wait, the fear, the act
and its reverse: in me they obstinate,
they ask to eat the bread, the fruit, the body,
drink the water that was denied them.
But there is no water anymore, everything is dry,
does not know the bread, the bitter fruit,
tamed love, chewed up,
in cages of invisible bars
onanist monkey and trained bitch,
what you devour devours you,
your victim is also your executioner.
Pile of dead days, wrinkled
newspapers, and uncorked nights
and sunrises, tie, slipknot:
"Say hello to the sun, spider, don't be spiteful..."

The world is a circular desert,
heaven is closed and hell is empty.

1. Elegy of the Impossible Memory by Jorge Luis Borges

What I wouldn't give for the memory
of a dirt road with low walls
and of a high horseman filling the dawn
(long and threadbare poncho)
on one of the days of the plain,
on a dateless day.
What I wouldn't give for the memory
of my mother looking at the morning
in the room of Santa Irene,
without knowing that his name was going to be Borges.
What I wouldn't give for the memory
having fought in Cepeda
and having seen Estanislao del Campo
saluting the first bullet
with the joy of courage.
What I wouldn't give for the memory
of a secret fifth gate
that my father pushed every night
before falling asleep
and that she pushed for the last time
on February 14, 38.
What I wouldn't give for the memory
of Hengist's boats,
setting sail from the sand of Denmark
to demolish an island
that was not yet England.
What I wouldn't give for the memory
(I had it and I've lost it)
of a cloth of gold from Turner,
vast as music.
What I wouldn't give for the memory
having heard Socrates
that, in the afternoon the hemlock,
calmly examined the problem
of immortality,
alternating myths and reasons
while the blue death was rising
from already cold feet.
What I wouldn't give for the memory
that you had told me that you loved me
and not having slept until dawn,
torn and happy.

ECLOGUE

1. "Eclogue 2" (excerpt) by Garcilaso de la Vega
   People: Albanio, Camila and Salicio, Nemeroso

In the middle of winter it's warm
sweet water from this clear spring,
and in the summer more than frozen snow.
Oh clear waves, how I see the present,
seeing you, the memory of that day
that the soul tremble and burn feels!
In your clarity I saw my joy
become all dark and cloudy;
When I charged you, I lost my company.
To whom could the same torment be given,
that with what rests another afflicted
come my heart to torment?
The sweet murmur of this noise,
the movement of the trees in the wind,
the soft scent of the flowered meadow
they could become sick and discontented
any happy and healthy shepherd in the world;
I alone in so much good to die I feel.
Oh beauty on the human being,
oh clear eyes, oh hair of gold,
oh ivory neck, oh white hand!
How can it now be that I cry sadly
life became so happy
and in such poverty all my treasure?
I want to change place and departure
maybe it will leave me part of the damage
that has the soul almost consumed.
How vain to imagine, how clear a delusion
is to give myself to understand that by leaving,
from me s’ha depart a bad size!
Oh weary limbs, and how firm
It is the pain that tires you and makes you weak!
Oh, if I could sleep here for a while!
To whom, keeping watch, good is never offered,
perhaps what the dream will give him, sleeping,
some pleasure that soon disappears;
in your hands oh dream! I commend

1. "Eclogue of Fileno, Zambardo and Cardonio" (fragment), by Juan del Enzina

FILENO
Now then, consent to my misfortune
that my evils go without end or means,
and the more I think about remedying them
then the sadness is much more aroused;
search suits me agena sanity
with which it mitigates the pain that I feel.
I have tested the strengths of my thought,
but they cannot give me safe life.
(Goes on.)

I don't know what to do anymore, nor do I know what to tell me,
Zambardo, if your remedy does not put.
Both m'acossan my fierce passions,
You will see from me my enemy life.
I know that in you only such grace is sheltered
that you can return to life what is dead,
I know that you are very safe port
do my thought their anchors garter.

1. "Eclogue of Breno and three other shepherds" (fragment) by Pedro de Salazar

[BRENO] People, birds, animals,
mountains, forests, come and see
my uneven cords

what more than have them such
I would be worth not being born,
because I feel
a storm force
valiant
so terrible that they have gone bankrupt
all of suffering.
I don't want any more cattle,
because the confidence of the
got me into being namorado
and make me love so badly treated
that I hate myself and him,
and then it grows
my desire and do not deserve
award,
hate me rightly,
for he who loves hates him.
well i can't behave
this sorrow that I die
and I'm foçado to separate,
I want to dress a fire
when my tool burns

who put
love do love has no use,
reason is
love and try later
I'm all confused.
You, crook, who suffered
my jobs than with them
you held my body
you will pay what you served
How are they paid?
condemned
you are, crook, to be burned
in sacrifice,
That's how it is for good service
my burning heart
You, çurrón, where is the flow
of poor maintenance
for main award
the fire will leave you
that the wind can carry you;
and think
that, well, they burn without mercy
My bowels,
that with so many viciousness
It's not much to use cruelty.
You, stone
and slavon,
that you make jump sparks,
So your daughters are
we do not make you a great unreason
to accompany you with them;
and you will burn
you, tinder, what do you look like
to my mornings,
that ignites love my entrails
how you turn on
You, oil, that you cured
the scum of my cattle,
well you didn't take advantage of me
and wounded you left me,
you will perish spilled;
you, gavan,
n'os fulfills having affán
to cover me,
that never my firm fire
the rains will kill it.
You, fonda, who excused me
to run after the cattle
with the stones you threw,
that a thousand times you turned it
of do s'iva dismantling,
you will be made
ash like the arrow
that I miss,
that lit me up in the chest
do not use any water.
I only have to say goodbye,
with nothing left,
but this afflicted soul
that it would be good if you were gone
and fires I can't;
But if I die
I will not see the one that I love,
what's worse,
more to live with such pain
fire it, I don't want it.
I want to kill myself and there
maybe pity me
that my death will know,
there is no power that will not say
oh wretched you!

SATIRE

1. "Addictions" by Gregorio de Matos

I'm the one who last years
I sang on my cursing lyre
Brazilian shame, vices and mistakes.

And I let them down so bad
I sing for the second time on the same lyre
The same theme in a different plethora.

I already feel that it turns me on and inspires me
Talía, what an angel is my guardian
Since Apollo sent that he had helped me.

Baiona burns, and the whole world burns,
That who by profession lacks truth
The sunday of truths is never late.

There is no time except Christianity
To the poor receiver of Parnassus
To talk about your freedom

The narrative must match the case,
And if maybe the case doesn't match,
I don't have Pegasus as a poet.

What is the use of silencing those who are silent?
Do you never say what you feel?
You will always mean what you say.

What man can be so patient?
That, seeing the sad state of Bahia,
Do not cry, do not sigh and do not regret?

This makes the discreet fantasy:
It takes place in one and another bewilderment,
He condemns theft, blames hypocrisy.

The fool, the ignorant, the inexperienced,
Don't choose good or evil,
Everything passes dazzled and uncertain.

And when you see maybe in the sweet dark
Praised good and vituperated evil,
He makes everything die, and nothing approves.

He says caution and rests:
– So-and-so is a satirist, he is crazy,
With a bad tongue, a bad heart.

Fool, if you understand something or nothing,
Like mockery with laughter and fuss
Muses, what do I appreciate most when I invoke you?

If you knew how to speak, you would also speak,
You would also lampoon, if you knew,
And if you were a poet, you would be a poet.

The ignorance of men of these ages
Sisudos makes some prudent, others,
That nonsense canonizes the beasts.

There are good ones, because they cannot be insolent,
Others are afraid of fear,
They don't bite others, because they don't have teeth.

How many there are that the ceilings have glass,
and stop throwing your stone,
Of your own scared tile?

We have been given a nature;
God did not create the various natural ones;
Only one Adam created, and this was nothing.

We are all bad, we are all evil
Only vice and virtue distinguish them,
Of which some are diners, others adverse.

Who has it, than I could have
This one only censors me, this one notices me,
Shut up, chitom, and stay healthy.

1. "To a Nose" by Francisco de Quevedo

Once upon a man stuck a nose,
once upon a superlative nose,
once upon a sayón nose and write,
Once upon a time there was a very bearded swordfish.
It was a badly faced sundial,
a pensive tart,
elephant upside down,
Ovidio Nasón was more nosy.
Once upon a spur of a galley,
Egyptian pyramid,
the twelve Tribes of noses was.
Once upon a very nosy infinity,
a lot of nose,
nose so fierce that on Anas's face it was a crime.

1. Luis de Gongora

From the already royal parties
tailor, and you are not a poet,
if to octaves, as to liveries,
official introductions.
Of other feathers you are worth.
Crow you will deny
the one that back and forth,
gemina shell, you had.
Galapago you always were,
and tortoise you will be.

MADRIGAL

1. Loved nerve

For your green eyes I miss it,
siren of those that Ulysses, sagacious,
she loved and feared.
For your green eyes I miss it.
For your green eyes in what, fleeting,
shine usually, sometimes, melancholy;
for your green eyes so full of peace,
mysterious as my hope;
for your green eyes, effective spell,
I would save myself.

1. Francisco de Quevedo

The bird is calmly in the air,
in the water the fish, the salamander in fire
and the man, in whose being everything is enclosed,
it is in shadow on earth.
I alone, who was born for torments,
I am in all these elements:
my mouth is in air sighing,
the body on land is pilgrimage,
my eyes are watery night and day
and my heart and soul are on fire.

1. Gutierre de Cetina

Clear, serene eyes,
if you are praised with a sweet look,
why, if you look at me, do you look angry?
If the more pious
you seem more beautiful to the one who looks at you,
do not look at me with anger,
because you don't look less beautiful.
Oh raging torments!
Clear, serene eyes,
since you look at me that way, at least look at me.

LETTER

1. "Mighty Knight is Don Dinero" by Francisco de Quevedo

Mother, I humiliate myself to gold,
he is my lover and my beloved,
Well, out of love,
go continuous yellow,
that then doubloon or simple
he does everything I want
Powerfull knight
He is Don Money.

He is born in the Indies honored,
Where the world accompanies you;
He comes to die in Spain,
And he is buried in Genoa.
And then who brings him to the side
He is beautiful, though he is fierce,
Powerfull knight
It is Mr. Money.

They are the main parents of him,
And he is of noble descent,
Because in the veins of the East
All bloods are Royal.
And then he is the one who does the same
To the rich and the beggar,
Powerfull knight
It is Mr. Money.

Who doesn't wonder
See in the glory of him, without fee,
What is the meanest thing in your house?
Doña Blanca of Castile?
But then that his strength humiliates
To the coward and the warrior,
Powerfull knight
It is Mr. Money.

His majesty is so great
Although the duels are fed up with him,
That even with being quartered
He doesn't lose the quality of it.
But then it gives authority
To the rancher and the laborer,
Powerfull knight
It is Mr. Money.

They are worth more in any land
(Look if he is very clever)
The shields of him in peace
Who rodelas in war.
Well, the natural banishes
And makes the stranger his own,
Powerfull knight
It is Mr. Money.

1. Luis de Gongora

let me hot
And people laugh.
Try others from the government
Of the world and its monarchies,
As they rule my days
Butters and soft bread,
And winter mornings
Orangeade and brandy,
And people laugh.

Eat on golden crockery
The prince thousand cares,
How gilded pills;
That I in my poor bedside table
I want more blood sausage
that bursts on the grill,
And people laugh.

When I cover the mountains
Of white snow in January,
Let me fill the brazier
Of acorns and chestnuts,
And who the sweet lies
Of the King who raged tell me,
And people laugh.

Look very in good time
The merchant new soles;
I shells and snails
Among the small sand,
Listening to Filomena
On the poplar of the fountain,
And people laugh.

Pass the sea at midnight,
And burn in loving flame
Leandro to see his Lady;
that I most want to spend
From the gulf of my winery
The white or red stream,
And people laugh.

Well love is so cruel,
That of Pyramus and his beloved
Makes a sword thalamus,
Do she and he get together,
Let my Thisbe be a cake,
And the sword be my tooth,
And people laugh.

1. Luis de Gongora

Learn, Flowers, in me
What goes from yesterday to today,
that yesterday wonder I was,
and today I am not yet my shadow.

The dawn yesterday gave me a cradle,
the coffin night gave me;
without light it would die if not
The Moon will lend it to me:
Well, none of you
stop ending like this
learn, flowers, in me
What goes from yesterday to today,
that yesterday wonder I was,
and today I am not yet my shadow.

Sweet consolation the carnation
he is at my short age,
because who gave me a day,
two barely gave him:
mayflies of the orchard,
I purple, he crimson.

Learn, Flowers, in me
What goes from yesterday to today,
that yesterday wonder I was,
and today I am not yet my shadow.

EPIGRAM

1. Juan de Iriarte

Mr. Don Juan de Robres,
with matchless charity,
she made this holy hospital…
and she also made the poor.

1. savior novo

Margaret was lucky
as an interposed person,
Well, Juarez found her foundling.
but he turned her into a wife.

1. Marcus Valerius Martial (1st century)

You ask what gives me my parcel in a land so distant from Rome.
Gives a harvest that is priceless:
the pleasure of not seeing you

It can serve you: