Pope. Satires and Epistles, ed. by M. Pattison1872 |
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Page 26
... ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face ? 70 A. Good friend forbear ! you deal in dang'rous things , I'd never name queens , ministers , or kings ; Keep close to ears , and those let asses prick , ' Tis nothing - P . Nothing ? if they bite ...
... ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face ? 70 A. Good friend forbear ! you deal in dang'rous things , I'd never name queens , ministers , or kings ; Keep close to ears , and those let asses prick , ' Tis nothing - P . Nothing ? if they bite ...
Page 28
... Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head , And St. John's self , great Dryden's friends before , With open arms ... ry theme , A painted mistress , or a purling stream . Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill ; I wish'd the man a ...
... Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head , And St. John's self , great Dryden's friends before , With open arms ... ry theme , A painted mistress , or a purling stream . Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill ; I wish'd the man a ...
Page 30
... ev'n fools , by flatterers besieged , And so obliging , that he ne'er oblig'd ; Like Cato , give his little senate laws , And sit attentive to his own applause ; While wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise , And wonder with a foolish ...
... ev'n fools , by flatterers besieged , And so obliging , that he ne'er oblig'd ; Like Cato , give his little senate laws , And sit attentive to his own applause ; While wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise , And wonder with a foolish ...
Page 31
... ev'ry quill ; Fed with soft Dedication all day long , Horace and he went hand in hand in song . His library , where busts of poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head , Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race , Who first his ...
... ev'ry quill ; Fed with soft Dedication all day long , Horace and he went hand in hand in song . His library , where busts of poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head , Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race , Who first his ...
Page 32
... ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my style ? Curst be the verse , how well soe'er it flow , That tends to make one worthy man my foe , Give virtue scandal , innocence a fear , Or from the soft - ey'd virgin steal a tear ! But he who hurts a ...
... ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my style ? Curst be the verse , how well soe'er it flow , That tends to make one worthy man my foe , Give virtue scandal , innocence a fear , Or from the soft - ey'd virgin steal a tear ! But he who hurts a ...
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Popular passages
Page 30 - Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike...
Page 33 - Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys : So well-bred spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
Page 30 - Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ? What though my name stood rubric on the walls Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ? Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers...
Page 52 - Who counsels best ? who whispers, ' Be but great, With praise or infamy leave that to fate; Get place and wealth, if possible, with grace ; If not, by any means get wealth and place.
Page 145 - I remember the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, "Would he ' had blotted a thousand," which they thought a malevolent speech.
Page 27 - Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, 'Just so immortal Maro held his head'; And, when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago. Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own?
Page 144 - whispers through the trees": If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep," The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep": Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Page 29 - Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.
Page 28 - Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite.
Page 64 - Who now reads Cowley ? if he pleases yet, His moral pleases, not his pointed wit ; Forgot his epic, nay Pindaric art, But still I love the language of his heart.