To your dictionaries

[woolybanana]

My neighbour, a widow recently took up with a gentleman of her acquaintance for the purposes of companionship. But, after a few weeks there is trouble in Paradise. He complains that he is always tired because he doesnt get his afternoon nap.

She thinks he finds her dévergondé. What a delightful word, which one can imagine being used maliciously in Louis XIVs court.

[mint]

Me nitpicking but shouldn't that be devergondée?

[woolybanana]

Ah, yes, Nitty! Because I first thought of it as a noun, to be fair.

[Lori]

So, people still use words like that??  Funny.

[idun]

Go on wooly, tell us how old are they???[:)]

[woolybanana]

Not sure, but at a guess early to mid sixties

[idun]

So not a hundred then and should be up to an afternoon frolic, which is surely far nicer than a 'nap' ........... does this make me 'devergondee' then[Www]

[Gardengirl]

Oh, a young couple then, not the 90 year olds I thought they might be - no bathchairs or ear trumpets needed. ?

[woolybanana]

Frankly I dont think she will keep him long as he seems a moaner.

[NormanH]

Perhaps she is a moaner too, but he doesn't get that far with her...

[NormanH]

To His Coy Mistress

By Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down, and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

       But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long-preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust;

The grave’s a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

       Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Through the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

[andrew44]

Dévergondée - that's what I called our (lady) cat as she shamelessly rolled on her back in the road while the local Toms lurked and gloated...

@+

[woolybanana]

Not Pus sy Galore?

[andrew44]

That too !