Help me understand older English

It wasn’t a date but a group of friends. I don’t think I’ve ever had a man pay for my expensive tastes in bubbles let alone anything else.

I’d be more surprised if a man paid for you to listen to open mic poetry.
 
It wasn’t a date but a group of friends. I don’t think I’ve ever had a man pay for my expensive tastes in bubbles let alone anything else.

On principle or by happenstance? Serious question.
 
It wasn’t a date but a group of friends. I don’t think I’ve ever had a man pay for my expensive tastes in bubbles let alone anything else.


I just knew you were a Top Shelf plonk kinda gal.

You just need to treat yourself to a better breed of poet.
 
I think the next Litogether in Chicago needs to involve some champagne (We'll go to Pops, a champagne bar in River North) and then some open mic poetry!
 
My wife is very similar in that she never expected me to pay, but didn't object that I wanted to. Very simple needs and tastes, except in rice cookers. Hasn't gotten smashed ever in the 24ish years that I've known her but we enjoy libations.

Anyway, was curious and thanks for answering :)
 

You beat me to it! I have a paperback copy of The Autobiography of a Flea and other Tart Tales by Anonymous around here somewhere. I have a bit of a thing for Victorian erotica. Simply fucking filthy.

Too bad you're not on Fet anymore or you could read it.

So wait, Miles has poetry on Fet??? Or just no pants. I'm confused. Again.
 
One of my favourites:

Westron wind, when wilt thou blow
The small rain down can raine
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

It's anonymous; it first appears in writing in a songbook from about 1530, but might be hundreds of years older than that. The significance of the second line isn't totally clear, but one explanation I've heard is that the writer was a soldier, waiting for a rainy season before he could return home. "I don't want to be here, I wish I was home with my love."

Sometimes it feels like magic to me. The author's been dead for the best part of a millennium, name lost to history, the world changed unimaginably. And yet that fragment of their longing still survives and still resonates, as if a little piece of the author's psyche escaped death.

A lot of poetry does nothing for me, but that one does.
 
^... so romantic

Who votes for Bramble to do a reading of that for us so we can truly appreciate it? *raises hand*

(And never heard your voice but always trust Rainy's taste in male voices, as it is very similar to my own.)
 
I'm shy about my voice, but give me a moment to figure out the technology and I'll see what I can do...
 
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